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UNCLE FRANK’S MARY 







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UNCLE FRANK’S MARY 


BY 

“CLEMENTIA” ^4 

SISTER OF MERCY 
St. Patrick’s Academy, Chicago 


* 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 


PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’s MAGAZINE 

1917 


Copyright, 1917 , by Bekziger Brothers 


OCT I 1917 

if 2 ®. 

©GI.A473765 


To 

MARY, 

Mother of Mercy, 
Our Life, Our Sweetness, 
and Our Hope. 
















* 



























CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. In the Trunk Room 5 

II. A Letter and Something Better . . 11 

III. Making Plans 15 

IY. Off the Newfoundland Banks ... 29 

V. Rescue 47 

VI. Commencement Day 63 

VII. Number 16 81 

VIII. Hearts Bowed Down 86 

IX. Vacation 94 

X. The New Boarder 168 

XI. A Wonderful Christmas Gift . . . 202 



Uncle Frank’s Mary 


CHAPTER I. 

IN THE TRUNK ROOM. 

“If Sister Austin thinks I can get all these things 
into one little bit of a trunk, I'm afraid she’ll be dis- 
appointed,” and Mary Selwyn laughed a happy little 
laugh that was good to hear. Then a perplexed pucker 
appeared on the fair forehead. “I really don’t know 
where to begin,” she sighed, seating herself on a neigh- 
boring trunk and hopelessly surveying the great pile of 
dolls, games, hooks, and those inevitable boxes so dear 
to the heart of every school-girl. 

Rising suddenly, she continued, “Well, I’ll do my 
best. It says on the black-board in our room, 4 Do your 
best ; Angels can do no more,’ and I have tried to do my 
best this year. Won’t mother be glad when she hears 
that I’ve won the class-prize? Oh, I can hardly wait 
until she comes! If someone would only invent a rail- 
road across the Atlantic! I’m sure a train can travel 
faster than those poky old boats.” The little maiden 
sighed, as she thought of the many, many leagues still 
between that loved mother and her own small self. 
“Guess I’ll start with the dolls. Here, Ted,” to the 
big white bear, “you’re soft, so I’ll put you in first. 
It won’t matter so much if you do get squashed,” and 
unresisting Ted was stowed away in the very bottom 
of the trunk. Gently and tenderly the little girl lifted 
the various members of her large doll-family with a 
word of farewell for each as she placed it in the trunk. 
First came Amelia Anabelle, her eldest and best-loved 
dolly, the parting gift of the dear, dear father to his 
sick little daughter. More than two years ago he went 
to a foreign country, then to Heaven, without even com- 
ing home to say good-by; and as she laid Amelia Ana- 
belle in the trunk, a big tear splashed unheeded on the 

5 


6 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


doll’s upturned, unsympathetic face. The little girl 
realized her loss far more than the grown folks thought, 
for she was older in many ways than the majority of 
children of her age. The first seven years of her short 
life had been spent altogether in the company of her 
parents and uncle, practically as an only child, her 
little brothers having died in infancy. Three months 
after her seventh birthday, when the family circle was 
enlarged by the birth of her twin sisters, Mary’s joy 
knew no bounds, and she immediately began to assume 
the duties and exhibit the motherly solicitude of an 
elder sister. She did not, however, lose any of her affec- 
tion for her silent companions of former days, but 
bestowed on them more care than ever in order that 
they might be in the best possible condition when her 
little sisters should be old enough to enjoy them. 

Brushing away her tears, she turned to Topsy and 
Tom, colored dolls, aged servitors in the family, who, 
side by side with the Japanese doll in her gorgeous 
robes, the little Eskimo, the gay sailor boy, and the 
brave soldier, found snug places ; then the beautiful doll 
Uncle Frank gave her on her last birthday, and so on, 
until all the dollies, large and small, white and black, 
were packed safe and sound in the little brown trunk. 
With a sigh, partly of relief, partly of regret, Mary 
rose to her feet and surveyed her remaining possessions. 

“Mary! MARY! MAY -REE SEL-WYNU” 

“That’s Wilhelmina,” said Mary, smiling a little. 
“Wonder what she wants now. She’s always in some 
scrape. ’ ’ 

The door of the trunk-room was flung open, and in 
ran a black-eyed, dark-haired child of nine, her short 
tousled curls setting off to advantage her flushed, ani- 
mated little face. 

“Found you at last, thank goodness! Wish you’d stay 
in a more civilized place. I’ve been everywhere from 
the garden to the dormitory, and there was Sister Austin 
as cool as you please, and such things going on! Do 


In The Trunk Room 


7 


stop that nonsense and listen,” insisted the impetuous 
little lady, drawing Mary, none too gently, to a place 
beside her on one of the trunks. 

“I am listening,” said Mary. 

“You must give me ‘your whole and individual at- 
tention/ as Sister Dominic would say. This is a matter 
of importance to you as well as to me. Mother’s here!” 
and Wilhelmina seized hold of poor Mary with such 
vehemence that the latter slid off the big trunk dragging 
her companion with her. The two children, laughing 
merrily, picked themselves up and resumed their lofty 
seat. They were indeed a pretty picture as they sat 
there in striking contrast to each other. Pale, fair little 
Mary, though nearly a year older, could not compare in 
size and strength with the large, healthy-looking child 
at her side. 

Wilhelmina continued, “Yes, she’s here at last — came 
tfor Commencement. Just think! I haven’t seen her 
since Christmas.” 

“And you left her and came way up here to tell me?” 
asked Mary in astonishment. “When my mother comes 

a 

“Of course I didn’t, you goosie. I had her all this 
glorious afternoon, and now she ’s gone ; but she ’ll come 
again tomorrow and wants to see you. Oh! I’m going 
home, Mary, ‘I’se gwine back to Dixie’. Home to father 
and the boys! I have only eight brothers you know, 
and such times as we’ll have! You don’t know what 
it’s been for me to be cooped up in a boarding-school 
and to hear that everlasting Wilhelmina ding-donged 
into my ears. ’ ’ 

“Why, isn’t that your right name?” asked Mary in 
surprise. 

“Oh, course it is, more’s the pity,” answered Wil- 
helmina. “I was called after an old maid aunt, father’s 
only sister. She was mad ’cause none of the boys were 
named for her, though Phil’s name is Philip William; 
but that didn’t satisfy her so the burden was laid on me , 


8 


Uncle Franks Mary 


and I have to go through life with such a name. But 
never mind, I’m going where I won’t hear it for ten 
glorious weeks. Of course, mother tries to be proper 
and calls me the whole of it, and it was she who put 
the nuns up to it; but you won’t catch the boys doing it. 
They always say Will, or Bill even, when mother’s not 
around. If you’ve ever had anything to do with boys, 
you ought to know that Wilhelmina is entirely too long 
and stylish for them. But you’ve lived all your life 
with grown-ups, so of course you don’t know anything 
about boys. My brothers are disappointed, too, ’cause 
I’m a girl. You see, if I were a boy, we’d have a base- 
ball nine right in the family. Just the same, I can play 
as well as any of them. But I haven’t told you half. 
We’re going to leave here the day after Closing and 
yon 9 re coming, too! No,” as Mary attempted to remon- 
strate, “ mother will not take a refusal, so there ! 99 de- 
clared Wilhelmina, giving her head an emphatic shake 
that set every saucy curl bobbing. 

‘‘But Wilhelmina ” began Mary. 

“No huts in this case,” said Wilhelmina, decidedly. 
“You’re coming.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You are.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can.” 

“Now Wilhelmina ” 

“Now Mary ” and the two hurst into a hearty 

laugh. 

“I have some good news, too, that I must tell you,” 
said Mary, “but I’ll have to finish this first. Sister will 
wonder what is keeping me so long, and if I begin to 
tell my secret, the supper-bell will ring before I’m half 
through.” 

“Let me help,” said the other. “I thought Sister 
packed all the trunks. She did mine.” 

“Mine, too, — that is, the one with the clothes in it; 


In The Trunk Room 


9 


but these are things that I am going to leave here all 
summer and she thought I could put them away myself. 
I didn't know what a job it would be or I think I’d have 
asked her to help me,” sighed Mary. “ I’ve been here 
’bout an hour, and that’s all I’ve done,” waving her 
hand toward the trunk. 

“Never mind, I’ll help you,” and Wilhelmina picked 
up a pile of books. “Well, Mary Selwyn! I don’t pre- 
tend to know much about dolls — never had but one in 
my life, and the boys hanged her on the tallest tree they 
could find — but I do know better than to put them in 
the very bottom of a trunk and pile books and boxes on 
top of them. Here, take them out and put them in the 
tray, while I attend to the books and things.” 

Mary obeyed, meekly enough, only too glad to have 
someone to direct the proceedings. 

“Why don ’t you give away a lot of these things ? ’ ’ con- 
tinued her companion. “I s’pose you never look at half 
the books, and poor children would be glad to get them. ’ ’ 

“I can’t,” answered Mary in a low voice, which made 
Wilhelmina turn and look up at her. “I’ve often 
thought of doing it, but some of them are premiums 
that mother hasn’t seen; others have been given me by 
those I love; and I’d rather give my spending money 
to buy things for the poor than to part with them, 
especially those that father gave me, ’ ’ she declared, with 
a catch in her voice that caused the other child to turn 
with renewed energy to the packing. Mary went back 
to the dolls and the two little girls worked on in silence. 
Wilhelmina wished that she could think of something 
to say, but somehow she just couldn’t. She had led such 
a sunny careless life that sorrow was a stranger to her. 
Much to her relief, Mary finally broke the silence. Her 
voice was quite steady as she said, “My part is finished 
and I s’pose you’ve been waiting for me. If you’ll take 
hold of the other end of this, I think we can lift it. ’ ’ 

At last the tray was safely put in place, the trunk 
locked, and the key attached to a chain about Mary’s 


10 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


neck. There was a pretty locket on the chain which 
Wilhelmina noticed without, however, remarking it. 

4 ‘Now I must tell you my good news, and then you’ll 
see why I can’t go home this summer with you,” began 
Mary, drawing a letter from her pocket. “This is the 
reason I was in such a hurry to pack. Let’s go down 
to the yard. It’s so stuffy up here.” 

Arm in arm, the two children left the trunk-room and 
made their way to a shady spot on the grounds where 
Mary told her secret. 


CHAPTER II. 

A LETTER AND SOMETHING BETTER. 

Some thirty miles from the big bustling city of New 
York, on the outskirts of a quiet village, stands the Con- 
vent of Maryvale, where little Mary Selwyn had spent 
more than two years of her short life. The Convent was 
surrounded by spacious grounds over which the children 
romped to their hearts’ content. 

When the two little friends had comfortably settled 
themselves on a rustic bench some distance from the 
other children who were enjoying a last romp before 
supper, Mary again produced the precious letter. 

“From your mother?” questioned Wilhelmina. 

“No, from Uncle Frank. But there’s something in 
it from mother, too,” replied Mary, handing Wilhelmina 
a folded paper. “Read it out loud. I’ve read it ’bout 
forty times, and I guess I’ll read it forty times more 
before I go to bed. It’s almost too good to be true.” 

Wilhelmina unfolded the paper and read: “We sail 
on the Helena , from Liverpool, Wednesday, June 8. E. 
M. Selwyn.” 

“Isn’t that grand?” cried Mary, clapping her hands. 
“You haven’t seen your mother since Christmas; but 
how would you feel if you had no mother near you for 
three Christmases and three birthdays and three every- 
days?” and the poor child broke down completely. 

Wilhelmina, utterly dismayed, put her arms around 
her sobbing little friend. 

“Don’t, Mary, please, please don’t. Tell me what this 
paper means. Do, that’s a dear. Who are wet 9 * 

“Why, mother and the twins, of course,” said Mary, 
drying her tears. “Excuse me for being a goose, but 
I’m so excited about it all.” 

11 


12 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“No wonder, ’ 9 responded Wilhelmina, sympathet- 
ically. “But I wish you’d tell me about the twins. I 
just love babies, and you never talk about them.” 

‘ ‘ It always made me too lonesome. But I ’ll talk about 
them now, and to them in a few days. Listen to Uncle ’s 
letter: ‘Dear little Girl— This cablegram just arrived 
and you must have the joyful news at once. I tele- 
phoned to the docks and found that the Helena is due 
here on the fifteenth. If I can manage my business 
engagements, I shall call for you that morning so we 
can go together to meet the steamer. If not, I shall 
bring mother and the twinnies out to the Convent, 
Thursday morning, in time for the Exercises. Will see 
you, however, Sunday, when we can talk over all our 
plans. Ever your devoted Uncle Frank. ’ ’ ’ 

“I should think that is grand,” declared Wilhelmina. 
‘‘Now tell me about the babies.” 

Before speaking, Mary pulled out the locket which 
Wilhelmina had already noticed. It was about the size 
of a quarter, and when a tiny spring was touched, the 
locket flew open, disclosing four little compartments each 
containing a photograph. Mary placed it in Wilhel- 
mina ’s hand saying briefly: “Father, mother, Berta, 
and Beth.” 

“How pretty!” exclaimed Wilhelmina. “I never 
saw one like it.” 

‘ ‘ Father and mother sent it to me for a birthday gift, 
the first lonely birthday I ever had. The babies weren ’t 
a year old when those pictures were taken so you can’t 
tell much about them. Mother says that Berta looks 
like father — dark curly hair and brown eyes. Beth is 
like mother and me. It seems just right that it should 
be so, because Beth is named after mother, Elizabeth, 
and Berta is really Roberta. Father’s name was Robert, 
you know. Two years ago last November, he had to go 
to Rome on business — I don’t know exactly what kind — 
but one thing about it that I didn’t like was that he had 
to live there for a year. Of course, mother wouldn’t let 


A Letter and Something Better 13 

him go alone, and she couldn’t leave the babies, so they 
all went with father. She took old Aunt Mandy, too, a 
colored nurse who had lived in mother’s family for 
years. ’ ’ 

“But why,” interrupted Wilhelmina, “why in the 
world didn’t you go, too?” 

“Wait,” responded Mary, “I’m coming to that part 
of it. I was sick — had the measles, then got pneu- 
monia, and though I was nearly well, Uncle Frank, 
he’s a doctor you know, said I’d get worse again if 
they took me on the sea. So they left me with him, 
and 0 Wilhelmina! he’s been the best uncle any little 
girl ever had. I’m afraid to say I like a thing, be- 
cause he’s sure to get it for me right away.” 

“Catch me being afraid to have folks get me what 
I like!” exclaimed Wilhelmina. 

“Why, you know very well, Wilhelmina, there are 
lots of things that we couldn’t have here; and men 
don’t always understand,” said Mary, in a superior 
tone. “Well, when I got over the sickness, Uncle Frank 
took me down South and we had a glorious time. We 
came back to New York late in April ; then I came here 
to school. During vacation, we went up to the moun- 
tains, and last summer we spent out West; but I’ve 
been here more than two whole school years. Father 
died last May,” she continued, now speaking rapidly 
in a low, strained tone, “but oh! I can’t talk about it. 
Mother wanted to come home, but the shock made her 
sick, and she wasn’t able to travel until fall. Then 
Beth is not strong, and the doctor said she couldn’t 
stand the winter here after the mild climate of Italy, 
so that is why they waited so long. But they’re com- 
ing ; coming at last ! ’ ’ and Mary seized the locket, kiss- 
ing it passionately. 

“Mary,” said Wilhelmina, “your secret is a billion 
times better than mine. Just imagine what a meeting 
it will be. Your mother is Mother Madeline’s and your 
Uncle Frank’s sister, isn’t she?” 


14 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Yes, Wilhelmina, and they are the only relatives 
I know. My father’s people would have nothing to do 
with him after he became a Catholic. He never spoke 
of them, and we were so happy together that we didn’t 
miss them. But there’s the supper bell.” 

The two little girls sprang to their feet and raced 
across the grass toward the house. 


CHAPTER III. 


MAKING PLANS. 

Mary woke the next morning with a vague feeling 
that something was going to happen. Then the mem- 
ory of the cablegram flashed upon her, and springing 
up, she began to dress hurriedly, first breathing a tiny 
prayer that God would protect all her dear ones dur- 
ing the coming day. “I will have a long problem to 
work in arithmetic, ’ ’ she thought. “ Wonder how 
many miles from New York to Liverpool? I s’pose I 
ought to know, but joggerfy isn’t my favorite study. 
I wish now that I had paid better attention to it. If it 
takes the Helena eight days to get here, by dividing 
the miles by eight, I ought to find out just how much 
nearer home they are every day. This is Thursday. 
Goodness me! Uncle Frank won’t come till Sunday, 
and even then I’ll have to wait three whole days and 
nights before I see mother and the babies. And dear, 
old, black Aunt Mandy. I s’pose she’ll call me ‘honey 
chile’ more than ever now. I’m so glad she’s with poor 
mother, — she’ll be such a help with the twins. Dear 
me, there goes the Mass bell and I’m not half ready.” 

Hurriedly finishing her toilet, she snatched her veil, 
and ran to overtake the others, who were by this time 
almost in the Chapel. 

Long and fervently did the child pray for the safety 
of her loved ones. How she wished that she was among 
the happy number who received Holy Communion that 
morning; but though she had not yet made her First 
Communion,* she had early been taught to desire ar- 
dently the coming of the Divine Guest into her little 
heart and to make frequent Spiritual Communions. 

♦The decree of our late Holy Father, Pope Piux X., concern- 
ing: the First Communion of little children, had not at this 
time been issued. 


15 


16 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


After Mass the children went to breakfast, then for 
a romp in the yard, before returning to the dormi- 
tories to make their beds and put all in order for the 
day. Many of the older girls had private rooms, and, 
though children of Mary’s age usually slept in the 
dormitories, Mrs. Selwyn preferred that her little daugh- 
ter should have a room to herself. So when Mary came 
to the Convent, the furniture, pictures, curtains, and 
knick-knacks, which had been in her own room at home, 
were sent also, and helped to lessen the lonely feeling 
that so often crept into the little heart. The child took 
great pride in keeping the brass bed bright and shin- 
ing, so that Uncle Frank, who was taken to see how 
cozy his niece was in her new home, declared that it 
looked like the fire-department. The pretty satin- 
wood dresser, its linen cover daintily embroidered in 
forget-me-nots; the hand-painted china toilet articles, 
also in blue and white — “Mother’s work,” as Mary lov- 
ingly told her little friends, who went into raptures 
over all the pretty things ; the soft mull curtains, looped 
back with pale blue ribbon; the writing desk to match 
the dresser; even the very wall-paper, seemed express- 
ly made for the fair little mistress of this abode. It 
was here Mary came after the morning outing, and 
when she had put all in order she once more took from 
her pocket the precious cablegram. “I can’t wait, I 
just can’t. Uncle must come before Sunday.” 

Passing quickly down the hall, she met Mother Made- 
line. 

“Good morning, my dear. You have a very long 
face for a little girl who only yesterday had such good 
news, ’ ’ said the Mother Superior, stroking the soft curls 
from the anxious brow. 

“0 Aunt Mary, may I please telephone to Uncle 
Frank?” 

“Certainly, child, but will you not tell me, too, what 
troubles you?” 


Making Plans 


17 


‘‘Why, there’s nothing exactly troubling me, Auntie. 
I just can’t wait for Sunday to come, that’s all.” 

“And you think that wonderful uncle of yours can 
make the world revolve more quickly, do you? asked 
Mother, smiling. 

“Now Aunt Mary, you know I’ve studied joggerfy 
long enough not to think such a thing ; but if I call him 
up, he may come before Sunday. ’ ’ 

“By all means, dear, call him up. The chat will do 
you both good. Remember, he and I are almost as 
anxious to see mother and the babies as you are. He 
will hardly be in his office now, however, so you had 
better wait half an hour. ’ ’ 

“Aunt Mary, you’re a dear! I’ll say the Rosary for 
you,” cried the child, throwing her arms about Mother’s 
neck, regardless of the clean guimpe the latter wore. 
Then, laughing gaily, she ran off to her practice room, 
little heeding Sister Edith’s reproof for her tardiness. 

How long the half hour seemed! At the first tinkle 
of the little bell which announced that practice-time was 
over, Mary sprang to her feet and like a flash was off to 
the telephone. Sister Edith hardly knew what to make 
of all this flurry. Had it been Wilhelmina Marvin, she 
could easily have understood ; but what change had come 
over gentle little Mary Selwyn, she could not imagine. 
Mary herself rather enjoyed the perplexed look on Sis- 
ter’s face, thinking as she danced lightly away, how sur- 
prised all the Sisters would be when they heard the good 
news. Everyone loved the child who knew and appre- 
ciated this fact, trying as far as lay in her power to 
show her gratitude by refraining from all that would 
displease or annoy anyone. 

Tom, the Doctor’s office boy, answered the phone. 
Great was Mary ’s disappointment to find that her uncle 
was not there. Fearing that Mother Madeline would not 
allow her to be so extravagant as to ’phone to the city 
again that day, she decided to entrust her message to 
Tom. He was old Aunt Mandy’s grandson, and his sis- 


18 


Uncle Prank’s Mary 


ter, Liza, was Uncle Frank’s housekeeper. Both were 
perfectly trustworthy, and did their best to spoil Mary 
whenever she paid a visit to the Doctor’s apartments in 
the city. The conversation this morning was as follows : 

“How soon do you expect Uncle in, Tom?” 

“Don’t no’m, Miss Mayree, I sartinly don’t fo’ sho.” 

“Has he been gone long?” 

“Purty consid’rable time, Miss Mayree.” 

“Now, Tom, I want you to tell him this for me.” 

“Yas’m, Miss Mayree, I sartinly will.” 

“Tell him, ” 

“I sartinly will, Miss Mayree.” 

“That I’m just dying to see him about the letter I re- 
ceived from him yesterday, and ” 

“Yas’m, Miss Mayree.” 

“And I don’t see how I can possibly wait until Sun- 
day.” 

“I sho’ly will, Miss Mayree.” 

“Is he terribly busy these days, Tom?” 

“Oh, yas’m, Miss Mayree. Dis yere bell am aringin’ 
all de time. ’Pears to me mos’ all de white folks in New 
York mus’ be sick.” 

“Well then, Tom, p’raps you’d better not make it too 
strong. I don’t want Uncle to be staying up nights or 
anything, just on account of me.” 

“Bress yo’ li’l heart, Miss Mayree. De Doctah am 
jus’ as anxious to see yo’ as yo’ is to see him. We all is 
so upsot ’bout dat cable cyar what came from yo’ ma 
dat we cain’t hardly see, we sartinly is.” 

“Won’t you and Liza be glad to see dear old Aunt 
Mandy again?” 

“We’s tickled to def, Miss Mayree at de prospec’ ob 
such a circumstance.” 

“Well, if you think Uncle can’t come, don’t mind, 
Tom.” 


Making Plans 


19 


“Yo’ kin bet he’ll come, all right, Miss Mayree. He’ll 
turn dis arth upside down for yo’, and yo’ knows it, 
so yo’ does.” 

“We’ll have a terrible bill for all this talk, Tom. 
Good-by. Tell Liza to come out soon.” 

“ Good-by, Miss Mayree. I’ll tell him for sho’, I sar- 
tinly will.” 

With a little sigh, Mary hung up the receiver, just 
as the bell rang for class. 

“If he can’t come I’ll offer it up for the holy souls 
and for a safe journey for mother and the twins,” she 
thought. 

Fortunately, the year’s work was completed and the 
prizes decided, or our little girl would have had a num- 
ber of black marks for inattention that day. Sister 
Bertrand knew her secret and made allowance for her 
preoccupation. She gave the class the very problem 
Mary was so anxious to work, and then, much to the 
child’s delight, had a lesson in geography, in which she 
dw r elt particularly on steamship routes across the At- 
lantic. After this came an hour’s practice for the 
Closing which was to take place the following Thursday. 

“Just one week more,” the children told one an- 
other, over and over again. And so the day passed, as 
did the following, and Friday evening brought a mes- 
sage that Mary Selwyn was “wanted” in the parlor. The 
girls, who did not know her secret, wondered at the more 
than usual eagerness displayed by the child in obeying 
the summons. 

Uncle Frank smiled as he heard the quick light step 
in the hall, and made a great show of bracing himself 
for the assault which he knew would follow. 

“0 Uncle, isn’t it just too grand?” exclaimed Mary, 
as she sat quietly on his knee, after the embraces were 
over. 

“Yes, little niece. Almost too good to be true, isn’t 
it? I wonder if you can guess what came to my mind 
on my way out here ? ’ ’ 


20 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


4 ‘Really, my head is in such a whirl that I hardly 
know the ‘tootums’ table, so if it’s one of your hard 
riddles save it until I have more sense. ’ 9 

‘‘It isn’t a riddle at all,” said the Doctor. “I was 
just wondering,” the teasing expression coming into 
the merry, blue eyes, — “I was just wondering if some- 
one’s nose will be out of joint when her old uncle sits 
with Berta on one knee and Beth on the other.” 

“Aren’t you a tease ! You know I’ll be only too glad 
to let them have my place even if I have to stand all the 
time. But what about mother’s lap? Oho! I’ve caught 
you this time!” 

“I thought your brains were so addled you didn’t 
know that ‘tootums one’r two.’ You’re an ungrateful 
puss to turn the tables on your poor old uncle that way. ’ ’ 

“Now, Uncle, let’s be sensified. Tell me what we are 
going to do?” 

“We are going to wait patiently if we can — at all 
events we are going to wait — for that steamer to drop 
anchor in the river. If there is no delay, it should ar- 
rive about two o’clock Wednesday afternoon.” 

“And,” interrupted Mary eagerly, “will two or three 
of those little busy-body tugs go out to meet it and tow 
it in, like they did the Coronia that day you took me to 
the docks to make up for how disappointed I was when 
I wasn’t able to go to see father and mother off? After 
steaming so nobly across more than three thousand miles 
of water ” , 

“Hm! How well we know our geography,” observed 
the Doctor. 

“Yes, I found that out yesterday, and I know just 
how much nearer home mother is every day. You don’t 
realize what a bright niece you have. Sister Bertrand 
gave it to us for a problem and I had the answer first in 
the class, because” she admitted laughingly, “I had it 
pretty well worked out in my mind before Sister gave 
it at all. But about that big ship and the tugs. I did 
feel sorry for the steamer when it had to be so igeroni- 


Making Plans 


21 


minously dragged into port/’ she concluded with quite 
an air. 

This was more than the Doctor could stand. Throw- 
ing back his head, the good man laughed long and loud. 
Mary at first looked a little crestfallen, then she, too, 
joined in the laugh and wiped away the tears that rolled 
down Uncle’s face. 

“Child dear, where do you hear such words? You 
will have to compile a dictionary of your own soon.” 

“I saw ignominious and erroneous in a book today, 
and I guess I got them mixed up.” 

“I should say you did. It’s poor taste, dearie, to use 
words you are not sure of. Better say that the great 
steamer looked like a whipped dog with its tail between 
its legs. ‘ Igeroniminously ’ indeed!” and the Doctor 
went off into another fit of laughter. “But I must stop 
this teasing. You’re a dear puss to stand it so well. 
Some girls would pout dreadfully if their old uncle 
twitted them so. If you only knew, little one, how I 
enjoy these half-hours of nonsense. We old doctors see 
so much suffering and misery in our daily work that we 
almost forget how to tease,” said he, giving her ear a 
gentle tweak. He did not add that her little sayings 
and doings were repeated for the amusement of his 
patients. 

“No danger of your forgetting, I fancy,” replied 
Mary. “But I don’t mind, so tease away. I wouldn’t 
be much good if I couldn’t let you have a little fun after 
all you’ve done for me,” leaning her head contentedly 
against the Doctor’s broad shoulder. 

“Hm! Been kissing the Blarney Stone lately?” 

“Haven’t kissed a soul but Aunt Mary since I last 
saw you. But do tell me what else we are going to do 
Wednesday. Oh!” clasping the frail little hands, and 
tightly closing her eyes, “I can see the Helena coming 
into the bay, and mother and the twinnies and old 
Aunt Mandy watching for us,” she exclaimed, happy 
tears rolling down the excited little face. It was Uncle’s 


22 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


turn to get out his handkerchief and, dreading a scene, 
as all men do, he began at once to unfold his plans. 

“What would you think of this? I shall come for 
you Wednesday about eleven-thirty and we shall have 
dinner together in town. Then we shall go down to the 
docks, with Liza and Tom, of course, and wait for the 
Helena to make her appearance, and then — well, I can- 
not answer for what any one of us may do.” 

“Oh, that will be just scrumptious!” cried Mary. 
“But you said something before about a delay. How 
can a steamer be delayed? There are no trains to wait 
for and no bridges to break down. I don’t see why it 
can’t sail straight ahead.” 

“So it can, usually. But if the weather is foggy, the 
vessel must travel slower for fear of colliding with other 
ships. Then there are other delays, caused by machinery 
getting out of order and such things. But come now, 
don’t worry that curly pate of yours about delays. Only 
be ready Wednesday, so as not to keep me waiting.” 

Mary remained silent for a few moments. When she 
spoke it was in a very low tone. 

“Uncle,—” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Don’t try to come way out here Wednesday if it’s 
going to discon — that is,” catching herself as she saw 
the twinkle in the Doctor’s eye, “that is, if it’s going 
to put you out any.” 

“Why, won’t you be terribly disappointed, if I do 
not come? Honestly, now, won’t you?” persisted the 
Doctor watching with interest the struggle that was go- 
ing on. He thought he knew the little maid pretty well, 
but this last speech did surprise him. 

“Aunt Mary won’t see them till Thursday,” replied 
Mary, “and it seems kind of selfish for us two to go 
off and have such a perfectly grand time and leave her 
out of it, don’t you think so?” 

“It would be selfish if Aunt Mary were an ordinary 


Making Plans 


23 


person, but she is not, you know ; and when she entered 
the Convent she gave up all notion of ever standing on 
a dock and cheering, as we mean to do. So don’t let 
that worry you. It shows though, that you appreciate 
all tki*t she has done for you even more than I thought.” 

“ Indeed I do, Uncle. It’s the first thing, I mean to 
tell mother when she comes, — all about how good and 
loving you have both been to me. She’s heard it often 
and often in the letters I wrote her, but she’ll hear it 
a million times more. I only hope she won’t find me 
spoiled to death. You have certainly done your best to 
spoil me. Why, I told Wilhelmina the other day that 
I’m almost afraid to say I like a thing, because, if I do, 
you are sure to buy it for me. If I say I like the moon, 
will you ask the weather-man to have all moonlight 
nights?” 

“ Really, my dear, I fear you have had access to the 
tub of soft-soap. But I am pleased to hear you talk 
this way of Aunt Mary. There is something I have al- 
ways intended to tell you about her and now is a good 
time to do it. You know our mother died when your 
mother was a little girl of ten, I a lad of fourteen, and 
Mary three years older. Father soon followed her. Mary 
and your mother had attended day-school at the Con- 
vent near home, and the former, who led her class in 
everything, would have graduated the following June; 
but after the death of our parents she remained at 
home. I was not surprised at this. Always self-sac- 
rificing and generous to a fault, she did everything in 
her power to take the place of the loved ones we had 
lost. The years went on, as years will go. I was near- 
ing the completion of my course with the Jesuits, but 
had not decided what my life work should be. I knew 
Mary’s wish for me, although she had never expressed 
it, and I myself felt a strong attraction towards the 
priesthood ; but there was a vague, undefined something 
which made me doubt whether this was God’s will for 
me. I prayed, oh, how I prayed for ‘light to know and 
grace to do,’ and I felt that others were praying, — 


24 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Mary and the good Jesuit priest to whom I had given 
my confidence after father’s death. At last the answer 
came. I had an opportunity to visit Saint Hos- 

pital, one day, where the sight of so many poor sufferers 
had such an effect on me, that, before I left the building, 
my resolution was taken. No, I could not he a priest. 
I felt sure that God was not calling me to anything so 
noble, so grand. But I would be, with His help, what I 
deemed the next best thing to a priest or to one who 
teaches souls the knowledge, love, and fear of God. 

“That night I acquainted Mary with my determina- 
tion to study medicine, and she confided to me her in- 
tention of becoming a religious as soon as your mother 
and I should be settled in life and could properly care 
for Aunt Margaret.’ * 

“Who was Aunt Margaret, Uncle?” 

“She was mother’s aunt and had always made her 
home with us. I felt that Mary was making too great a 
sacrifice for us, and, much as I hated to part with her, I 
tried to persuade her to carry out her cherished plan 
at once. But she was firm in her purpose to remain 
with us, at least until Elizabeth had finished school, and 
I had to content myself with the secret resolution to 
study day and night until I should be a full-fledged 
M. D., so that I, for one, might be no obstacle in her 
way. Well, dearie, the time passed quickly, and about 
six months after your mother graduated, she married 
Robert Selwyn, a class-mate of mine, and the best 
friend I ever had.” The Doctor, pausing a moment, 
rubbed his nose very hard with his big handkerchief; 
but fearing lest Mary should share in his emotion, he 
immediately recovered himself and continued, “They 
came to live in the old home, and the following sum- 
mer, Aunt Margaret having died in the meantime, Mary 
left us for this beautiful spot where she has been ever 
since. The next May, God sent you, little girl, to liven 
things up a bit in the old place. My! what a little 
squealer you were.” 


Making Plans 


25 


‘‘Now Uncle, that’s not fair. How could I help 
squealing when I didn’t know any better. Besides, 
mother told me I was the best of all the babies.” 

“Did she, indeed! Well, no doubt her memory failed 
her for that once. My! child, the duets of Berta and 
Beth were nothing compared to your solos.” 

“I don’t believe it, and I’ll ask mother first thing, 
so now.” 

“You have so much to ask mother ‘first thing’ that 
I fear she will take the return steamer for Liverpool.” 

‘Do stop teasing and tell me the rest, please do.” 

“What rest? Oh yes! When you were two years 
old, Robert came, but God wanted him and little Fran- 
ces, the next baby, in heaven; so for seven years, until 
the twins came, you were our one little sunbeam. You 
know all the rest yourself, dear. I have told you this so 
that you may never forget the debt of gratitude we 
owe to dear old Aunt Mary.” 

“You make me laugh when you call her and your- 
self ‘old.’ I have it all counted up and you must be 
only about thirty-five now. But I know of some other 
mighty good people in the family. Tom has told me 
one or two secrets ’bout an ‘old’ gentleman, who goes 
out all hours of the night in the awfullest weather to 
see sick folks who are too poor to pay a cent. ’ ’ 

“What’s that?” exclaimed the Doctor wrathfully, 
“I’ll warm that darkey’s ears for him if he can’t hold 
his tongue.” 

“Now, now,” said Mary, fishing in his pocket, 
“where’s your thermometer? I’ll wager you have a 
fever of one hundred and three.” 

“By the way, I forgot to bring your candy,” said the 
poor man, looking quite ashamed of his carelessness. 

“Candy!” repeated Mary scornfully, “Candy! Do 
you think I mind such trifles when mother is coming? 
No, indeed! But I’ll tell you what you can do. Every 


26 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


time you tease me, you can give me a half-pound of 
candy.” 

“And every time I catch you murdering a big word, 
you shall forfeit a half-pound,” said Uncle laughing. 

“Good!” cried Mary, “let's begin right now. No, 
I'm not a bit disappointed that you forgot it today. I 
think I'll stop eating altogether till mother gets here. 
I'm too excited to sit still long enough to take my 
meals. ’ ' 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, my lady! Have your 
mother come home and find you looking like a famine- 
sufferer after all the care we have tried to take of you? 
No, not if I have to stay to feed you!” 

“Oh! you dear old goose. Don't you think I care 
more for you than to give mother a chance to blame you 
for anything?” exclaimed the child. “Why Uncle,” 
she continued, earnestly, “there isn’t a thing happens 
but what I tell you, — all my troubles and everything.” 

“I’ve heard very few of your troubles, so I presume 
you haven't many,” said Uncle, smiling. 

“Well, that’s true. I’m not compensated ” 

“Fine!” cried the Doctor, pulling her curls. “I 
caught you, miss.” 

“Fine yourself! You're teasing again. You pulled 
my hair. ’ ' 

“We will have to call it quits, then,” said Uncle in 
a disappointed tone. “I thought I should be a half- 
pound ahead. Come, I must be going, and I haven't 
seen Aunt Mary yet. Here she is, now. Good-by, dearie. 
I’ll let you know if I can’t come Wednesday.” He 
kissed the little girl and turned to greet Mother Made- 
line. 

Mary danced away, leaving the brother and sister 
together. 

“How have you been, Mary?” asked the Doctor. 

“Very well, indeed. I need not ask you that ques- 
tion. Any news of the Helena?” 


Making Plans 


27 


1 ‘Not yet. I have just been talking things over with 
the little one. She is almost beside herself with joy, 
and I promised to come for her Wednesday. The little 
fairy was afraid you would be lonely if we went off 
together, and proposed waiting until I should bring 
Elizabeth and the babies out here.” 

1 ‘Bless the child. She is far more considerate than 
we realize, Frank.” 

1 ‘Yes, and I tease her unmercifully. I must mend 
my ways,” said the Doctor, pulling out his watch. “I’ll 
have to run for it, Mary, or miss my train to the city.” 

Catching up his hat, he grasped her hand and was 
gone. She watched him as he strode down the walk; 
then, with a prayer for him and the loved sister still 
far away, returned to her work. 

After leaving Uncle Frank, Mary ran to find Wil- 
helmina, and the two children again sought the quiet 
spot near the lake. Though Mary had nothing new to 
tell her little friend, she found in Wilhelmina a most 
interested and sympathetic listener. 

“I just can’t keep it to myself! It’s all so grand and 
you’re the only one of the girls I feel like telling. You 
don’t mind leaving the games for a little while, do 
you?” she asked anxiously. 

“Mind!” cried Wilhelmina. “Why, I’m most as ex- 
cited about it all as you are. It’s like something you’d 
read about in a fairy-book. Mind! Do hurry and tell 
what your uncle said.” 

By this time they had reached the old bench, where 
Mary related all the plans for the coming Wednesday. 

“I told him, too, about how good your mother is to 
want me to visit you this summer. But oh! how can 
I ever wait until Wednesday,” she exclaimed, clasping 
her hands and closing her eyes tightly to shut out the 
surrounding scene in order to see more clearly the one 
her fancy painted. “Yes,” she continued as if to her- 
self, “I see the great white ship with the big smoke 


28 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


stacks, coming nearer and nearer over the bright blue 
water, and Uncle and me waiting, waiting, waiting, un- 
til 0 Wilhelmina, I just can't wait!" she broke off 

suddenly. 

“I really don’t see how you can," answered the child 
by her side, “but there'll be so much going on between 
now and Wednesday that the time will just fly — see if 
it doesn't," and the black curls bobbed most emphatic- 
ally. Mary shook her head, seriously doubting her little 
friend's words as applied to her case. 

“It may fly for the rest of them who have nothing 
special to look forward to, but I know it'll be like cen- 
turies to me. Oh, there's that bell! Seems to me a 
bell always rings when we have lots to talk about. 
Gracious!" with a glance at the sun, “it must be sup- 
per time. Where has the afternoon gone!" 

“Hm," observed Wilhelmina, with a roguish twinkle 
in her dark eyes. “I thought time wouldn't fly for some 
folks. Catch me if you can ! ' ' and the child was off like 
a flash, closely followed by Mary, anxious to repay her 
for that last shot. 


CHAPTER IV. 


OFF THE NEWFOUNDLAND BANKS. 

“How long before we leave this dreadful fog behind 
us, Captain ?” 

The speaker was a tall, dark woman, one of a group 
of four, who occupied a sheltered corner on the deck of 
the ocean-steamer, Helena. The Captain paused in his 
promenade, and, before answering, drew up a deck-chair 
and joined the circle. 

“Here’s a place for you, little lady,” he said, patting 
his knee and holding out his hand to a dark-eyed child, 
clad in a Red Riding-hood cloak, leaning against a fair 
young woman, who held on her lap a pale, delicate-look- 
ing little girl of scarce three years. The child addressed 
hesitated to leave her mother, but on second thought 
ran to the Captain. 

“Oh yes, we have become great friends, this little 
girl and I, Mrs. Selwyn. I am afraid I shall be a lonely 
old man on my next trip across,” declared Captain 
Crosby tweaking the tiny ear, invisible because of the 
mass of dark curls which covered it. 

“Berta will miss her good friend, too,” replied Mrs. 
Selwyn. “I wish Beth would run about more. She is 
entirely too timid.” 

“Never mind,” laughed the Captain, “Berta has ‘go’ 
enough in her for both. Of course, it would be better 
for the little one to run around and get strong.” 

“You say ‘little one,’ Captain. The children are 
twins.” 

“You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed. “Berta looks 
so much older.” 

The lady who had first addressed the Captain watched 
silently and with jealous eyes the child who sat con- 
29 


30 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


tentedly on his knee playing with his great gold watch- 
chain. Since the first day out, she had vainly striven 
to win the little girl's confidence, but the child firmly 
resisted her overtures and politely rejected the proffered 
sweets. Mrs. Bruce had no intention of giving up, how- 
ever, and determined to use all her arts to win over 
her small antagonist. Only two days lay between them 
and New York, and all on board were glad that the long 
voyage from Liverpool was nearly ended. Very early 
that morning the great ship had entered the dense fog 
which hangs over the Newfoundland Banks, the pas- 
sengers being made fully aware of the fact by the deaf- 
ening blasts of the fog horn. 

1 ‘You asked how soon we may hope to leave this old 
enemy of ours behind, Mrs. Bruce. If nothing unforseen 
happens, I can promise you fair skies tomorrow. I as- 
sure you I shall be just as glad as you will be to see 
them again." 

1 ‘I should think you would be so accustomed to these 
fogs that you would not mind them," remarked the 
lady. 

“Does one ever really become accustomed to a thing 
so dangerous to navigation as these fogs?" asked the 
Captain gravely. “Since half-past one this morning I 
have stood on the bridge awaiting the report of the look- 
out ; for when he gives the warning, ladies, we must act 
quickly." 

“Are we really in danger, Captain?" asked Mrs. Sel- 
wyn in a surprised tone. 

“No ship can pass over the ‘ Graveyard of the At- 
lantic' without being in more or less danger. But the 
worst is over, else I should not be down here. See yon- 
der, how the fog is lifting. Yes, if the wind does not 
change, I am confident of a bright day tomorrow. What 
do you say, Miss Berta, to a stroll around deck?" He 
rose and swung the child lightly to his shoulder. * 4 There 
is room on the other one for you, Beth. Won't you 
come?" 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 


31 


“Turn on Bef, it’s lot of fun ’way up here. Tap’n is 
goin’ to take me widing.” 

But Beth only clung closer to her mother, hiding her 
face on that friendly shoulder. The Captain shook his 
head laughingly, and strode away down the deck with 
the little red-cloaked figure on his shoulder. 

“What’s zat yitty fing way up zer?” asked the child, 
as they passed around the front of the vessel. 

“What little thing? Oh, that’s the crow’s nest.” 

“What zat?” 

“The place where two men stay to watch for other 
ships so that we won’t run into them. Want to go up 
there?” 

“Ess. Oh, I wish my yitty sissoo tould turn, and 
muzzer, too ; but not zat ozzer lady. ’ ’ 

“What’s the matter with the other lady?” 

“I is ’faid of her eyes, I is.” 

“Why, she seems very fond of you.” 

“What zat?” 

“What?” 

“Fond of ’oo.” 

“Oh,” laughed the Captain, “she likes you very 
much. But come now if you want to go up to the crow ’s 
nest.” 

“Will a big black trow be in it?” 

“Two of them, but not exactly the kind you mean.” 

The Captain proceeded to make his way down through 
the vessel to the door-way which opens into the foot of 
the great mast through which they ascended to the 
crow’s nest. 

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Selwyn and Mrs. Bruce had 
resumed their conversation, the first one of any length 
which had taken place between them. 

“Like the Captain, I can hardly believe your little 
girls are twins. Berta looks more than a year older 


32 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


than this child, and they do not resemble each other in 
the least. Yon do not dress them alike either.” 

,s * Berta has always been so much stronger than Beth, 
consequently more self-reliant. She is very like her 
father, and this little one, they say, resembles me. She 
is dedicated to our Blessed Mother and will wear blue 
and white until she is seven, while Berta wears red in 
honor of the Sacred Heart.” 

“I fear I do not understand you. I am not a Cath- 
olic, Mrs. Selwyn. Nevertheless, this pale blue cloak 
and hood are very becoming to Beth, and the red to 
Berta. By the way, is that name a form of ‘Bertha’?” 

“No, Mrs. Bruce, my little one is called Roberta, 
after her father, Robert Selwyn.” 

“You have no other children?” 

* ‘ One more, a little girl of ten, who is with my brother 
and sister in New York.” 

“Do your husband’s relatives also live in New York?” 

“No, Mrs. Bruce. My husband had but one brother 
and sister. The latter remained with her father on 
their old Virginia plantation until his death eleven years 
ago, when she joined her brother abroad. Since that 
time we have never heard of either of them.” 

“It is strange, is it not, how members of a family 
drift apart? Doubtless your husband and little girl 
will be at the docks to meet you, Mrs. Selwyn. How 
fortunate you are, how very fortunate you are! My 
home-coming is sad indeed. I have no children, and 
my husband died in England a year ago, so that I am 
all alone.” 

“I can really sympathize with you Mrs. Bruce, as I, 
too, am returning home a widow,” responded Mrs. Sel- 
wyn, her eyes filling with tears as she thought of a lonely 
grave in far-off Italy. She did not notice the start of 
surprise nor the look of pain which swept over her com- 
panion ’s countenance. 

“Don’t cwy, muzzer, don’t cwy,” pleaded Beth, kiss- 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 33 

ing away the tears, while Mrs. Selwyn hugged the little 
one closer, stroking the soft fair curls that peeped out. 
from the blue hood. 

“You are not cold, darling, are you?” she asked. 

“No, muzzer, I is all nice and comfy.” , 

“Was Ro — Mr. Selwyn traveling for his health?” 
pursued Mrs. Bruce. 

“No, Mrs. Bruce, he was obliged by business to 
live in Rome for a year, at the end of which time we 
intended to return home; but the doctor feared the ex- 
treme change in autumn, from Italy to New York, for 
Beth, so we decided to remain until spring. Just after 
Christmas, a party of Americans, friends of Mr. Sel- 
wyn, persuaded him to accompany them on a trip to 
India, intending to return about the end of May. They 
went quite a distance up into the country, and on their 
homeward journey camped for a week not far from 
Calcutta. Mr. Selwyn sent Tom, his colored servant, 
into the city to engage passage on the next steamer leav- 
ing for Europe, and in that way spent a night alone in 
his tent. The following morning, when he did not ap- 
pear at breakfast, his friends went to his tent and found 
it empty, but, as the bed had been occupied during the 
night, they concluded that he had gone for a stroll and 
would soon return. When an hour elapsed and he did 
not come, they started out in search of him, and after 
some time came upon him lying on the ground, dead 
from the bites of venomous snakes whose nest he must 
have accidentally disturbed.” Mrs. Selwyn covered her 
face with her hands, her slight frame shaken with the 
emotion she could no longer repress, while Mrs. Bruce, 
too, showed unwonted feeling, and Beth looked in dis- 
may from one to the other, then about the deck as if 
seeking some remedy for this sad state of affairs. 

“Here turn Berta and the Cap’n. Zey’s wunnin’ a 
wace,” she exclaimed, springing from her mother's 
knee, and running to meet her sister, who put her arm 
around the little blue figure with the most protecting 


34 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


air possible. Every eye watched the tiny pair as they 
trotted along the deck beside the Captain. There was, 
indeed, a great contrast between the two beautiful chil- 
dren, — Berta, sturdy and rosy, her great brown eyes 
sparkling with fun and mischief, her dark rebellious 
curls, which defied all Aunt Mandy’s efforts to keep 
them neat, bobbing saucily from out the scarlet hood; 
Beth, fragile and fair as a dainty flower, her eyes deep 
and blue, with that wondering expression so often no- 
ticed in little children. 

“I have brought your little one back, safe and sound, 
Mrs. Selwyn,” said the Captain with a salute which 
Berta attempted to imitate, to the great amusement of 
the other passengers. “She is a fine sailor, and I hope 
to have the pleasure of her company on another voyage 
some day.” 

“Oh muzzer, Tap’n did take me way, way up to ze 
trow’s nest, and it isn’t nenny nest at all. It’s like a 
yitty porch wif two men in it, and zey’s all ze time 
lookin’ fru a long fing for ice-burgles, zey is. What’s 
ice-burgles, muzzer?” 

“Big mountains of ice, dear. Don’t you remember 
the mountains we used to see, away in the distance? 
Well, something like that, only made of cold, shiny ice.” 

“0 Tap’n, I wis’ we tould see one!” 

“Well then, I don’t. But I must be off. It is nearly 
time to dress for dinner. Here’s Aunt Mandy after 
you,” and with a bow to the little group, the Captain 
strode away. 

“Yes, Aunt Mandy, we are ready to go in now,” said 
Mrs. Selwyn to the old colored woman who stood at a 
respectful distance waiting for the Captain to with- 
draw. She now gathered up wraps and cushions and 
followed the ladies who with the children were on their 
way down the deck. Arriving at the stateroom, the 
nurse with loving care removed the warm cloaks and 
proceeded to dress her charges for dinner. The simple, 
white dresses of fine, soft material, exactly alike save 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 35 

for the pale blue ribbons on one and the cherry-colored 
on the other, gave evidence of the mother's good taste 
and set off the beauty of her little ones. Her own black 
gown, simple yet elegant, was in striking contrast to 
the elaborate dinner costumes of most of the ladies. 

With a tiny hand in each of hers, she led the little 
girls to the dining-room. On the way thither they again 
met Mrs. Bruce who tried to take Berta's disengaged 
hand, but the child drew back so suddenly and clung 
so tightly with both hands to her mother's, that the 
latter looked down at her in surprise. 

“Why, what is the matter, dear? Won't you take 
Mrs. Bruce's hand?" But Berta only clung the more, 
shaking her dark curls most emphatically. 

“She is not usually so timid, Mrs. Bruce, but we 
have lived very quietly for the past two years so that 
the children have met few strangers." 

The lights in the passage-way were somewhat dim, 
and Mrs. Selwyn did not notice the expression on the 
face of the older woman. Far better for her had she 
seen the gleam of jealousy in the dark eyes fixed on her 
darling during that dinner-hour, and heard the words, 
“Robert Selwyn 's child, and he is dead. She has two 
others, while I am utterly alone. Not even one of the 
old servants left to bid me welcome home. 0 Robert 
Selwyn, why did you!" 

But Mrs. Selwyn suspected nothing. She was one 
of a cheery group who sat at the Captain's table, the 
Captain at the head, Berta at his left, Mrs. Selwyn 
next, then little Beth, and so on around the party of 
New Yorkers who had become great friends on this long 
homeward voyage. All had proved themselves excellent 
sailors, able to enjoy three good meals a day, and Cap- 
tain Crosby, never in want of a topic of conversation, 
did more than his share towards keeping the party in 
good spirits. So attentive was he to his little friend on 
his left, that she could not refrain from leaning over 
her mother to tell Beth in a whisper that was heard all 


36 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


around the table, ‘ ‘ Tap ’n Twosby treats me des like I is 
a yun lady. ’Oo tan sit here for breksas, don ’t ’oo want 
to?” But timid Beth shook her yellow curls and de- 
clined the honor. 

Dinner over, they repaired to the drawing-room, with 
the exception of a few of the gentlemen who were will- 
ing to brave the fog and dampness for the sake of a 
smoke on deck. After an hour spent in music and song, 
Mrs. Selwyn excused herself on the plea that it was bed- 
time for her little daughters. She found Aunt Mandy 
waiting in the stateroom, and while the faithful old 
nurse put the children to bed, she sat down to write a 
long letter to Father Giovanni, her good friend and 
counselor of the past two years. The little ones came 
to say their prayers at her knee, and after kissing them 
and seeing that they were well tucked in bed, she bade 
the old servant good-night and dismissed her until morn- 
ing, thinking as she resumed her seat, “Dear Aunt 
Mandy, what should I ever have done without her.” 
With a sigh, she again began to write; a whole hour 
passed before she had sealed and stamped the letter 
which Father Giovanni was never to receive. Then re- 
moving her rich gown, she wrapped a warm dressing 
robe about her and knelt beside her sleeping children to 
say her Rosary. Her prayers finished, she still knelt, 
how long she never knew, gazing on the flushed little 
faces before her. She heard the “All’s well” of the 
watch in the crow’s nest and the answering cry from 
the bridge. Slowly her mind traveled over the joys and 
sorrows of the years spent in Italy; then on to the re- 
union two days hence ; and her tears overflowed at the 
thought of how different it all might have been. At 
length, reproaching herself for her want of gratitude 
to God for the loved ones still left to her, she slipped 
her rosary around her neck, and removed from her 
fingers two valuable rings. These she put carefully in 
a small chamois bag which she wore attached to a chain 
about her neck. It already contained jewels of great 
worth, some of which had belonged to her mother, while 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 


37 


others were the gifts of her husband. Her money she 
carried in a close-fitting belt worn under her dress. 
She was in the act of rising to her feet, bending over as 
she did so to kiss once more the rosy little faces, when 
a terrific crash threw her headlong against the wall op- 
posite. The great ship quivered in every fiber, then 
stood still, and a silence as of death ensued. Then came 
the rush of feet in the corridors and on the deck over- 
head. Snatching up a pair of warm slippers, she thrust 
them on Berta’s feet, thankful that Aunt Mandy had 
insisted on having the little ones sleep in their slumber- 
robes. She woke the child and hastily fastened the red 
cloak about her, drawing the hood well over the curly 
head. 

“ Stand still, darling, till mother gets little sister 
ready. Don’t go to sleep again. Captain wants us all 
up on deck, dear,” and, while striving to rouse Berta to 
full consciousness, she wrapped Beth in a heavy blanket, 
threw a large shawl about her own head and shoulders, 
and unfastened the door. With the sleeping child on one 
arm and Berta’s chubby hand clasped tightly in hers, 
she hurried through the now deserted passages, earnestly 
wishing that Aunt Mandy would come to her aid; for 
Berta was -only half awake and, though the poor child 
stumbled bravely along the dimly-Ii,ghted hall-ways, 
their progress was necessarily slow. 

“Does ’oo fink Tap’n is going to have s’y-rockets, 
muzzer ? ’ ’ 

“Maybe so, darling,” but the mother’s heart sank 
as she thought to what use the rockets were to be put. 
At last they reached the top of the first flight of stairs, 
and Mrs. Selwyn uttered a fervent “thank God,” as 
she saw Mrs. Bruce hastening to meet her. The latter 
tried to take Berta in her arms, but the child, wide 
awake now, resisted. 

“Go to Mrs. Bruce for mother’s sake, dear,” and the 
little thing obeyed at once, though the big dark eyes 
were wide with fear. 


38 


Uncle Frank’s Mart 


“We must go up to the boat deck,” said Mrs. Bruce. 
“Turn down this way. There is a door farther down 
that will bring us out among the second-class passengers. 
All the first-class have been lowered in the boats at the 
forward end of the deck, so our best chance now is 
down near the middle. The Captain says the ship will 
float for hours. Struck by a submerged ice-field. Three 
vessels signalled by means of the wireless are rushing 
to the rescue. There is no danger. The sea is calm. 
If this awful fog would only lift!” 

“Have you seen Aunt Mandy? It is not like her to 
leave me alone in this way.” 

“I have not seen her.” 

By this time they had reached the boat-deck and 
found the number of boats rapidly diminishing. 

Meanwhile, Aunt Mandy had made her way to Mrs. 
Selwyn’s stateroom, and, finding her gone, she seized 
an armful of blankets and hastened out to the forward 
part of the deck where the last of the first-class pas- 
sengers were being lowered in a boat. Running up to 
an officer who was directing the proceedings she cried, 
“0 sah! whar’s ma Miss ’Lisbuf? Ma Miss ’Lisbuf an’ 
dem precious lambs?” 

“Were they first-class passengers?” asked the officer. 

“Yas sah, dey wuz.” 

“All the first-class passengers are out there,” point- 
ing to the lanterns that could be dimly seen bobbing 
about in the darkness. “The Captain sent around to 
all the staterooms, and there’s not a soul in one of them. 
Here’s a place for you in this boat, and you’ll be with 
your mistress in a few hours when the other vessel picks 
us up,” continued the officer, kindly. 

Poor Aunt Mandy, thinking that Mrs. Selwyn and 
the children were safe, allowed herself to be assisted 
into the boat and lowered away. She clung to her big, 
green cotton umbrella, the only one of her few possesions 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 39 

she had brought from the wreck, and even in this in- 
stance the safety and comfort of her “Miss Lisbuf an’ 
dem bressed lambs” were her first thought. 

“Fo’ yo’ see,” she remarked confidentially to her 
neighbor in the boat, “dis heah am a powahful useful 
ting fo’ keep in’ de waveses from dashin’ ober a pus- 
son.” Had she known what was happening farther 
down on the deck, her faithful heart would have been 
far from peaceful. There Mrs. Selwyn and Mrs. Bruce 
stood among the second-class passengers, anxiously 
awaiting their turns. 

“How can I ever thank you for coming to my assist- 
ance, Mrs. Bruce!” exclaimed Mrs. Selwyn. “I dread 
to think of what might have happened had I been left 
alone with the children,” but her voice was drowned 
in the noise and confusion which prevailed in spite of 
the presiding officer’s oft-repeated declaration that there 
was no immediate danger, and boats enough for all on 
board. 

Mrs. Bruce, grasping Mrs. Selwyn by the arm, forced 
her way through the throng to the officer’s side and in 
a low tone informed him that they were first-class pas- 
sengers, delayed on account of the children from join- 
ing the others of their cabin. The officer immediately 
assisted Mrs. Selwyn into the boat before them. In the 
effort to keep her balance, burdened as she was with 
Beth still asleep in her arms, she did not notice that 
there was only one vacant seat and that the officer had 
given the command to lower away. Placing Beth in the 
out-stretched hands of a good-natured Irish woman, 
she was about to take Berta from Mrs. Bruce, when she 
was startled by the piteous scream, “Muzzer! Muzzer! 
take me too !” Turning, she stretched out her arms and 
a cry burst from her lips as she saw the ever-widening 
space between herself and the little red-cloaked figure 
far above her on the railing. 

“Jump, darling, jump! Mother will catch you!” she 
cried, heedless of the danger and conscious only of the 


40 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


gleam of malignant triumph in the eyes of the woman 
who was keeping her child from her. 

The little one heard the call in spite of the surround- 
ing din and struggled frantically to obey ; but the strong 
arm about her held firm, and, leaning far over the rail, 
the dark-eyed woman hissed, “You took my brother 
from me. I will keep your child ! ’ ’ 

“Bertha Selwyn!” gasped the mother. She swayed 
and would have fallen but for the officer in the boat, 
who seized her arm, exclaiming, “I must insist that you 
take your seat, Madam. You are endangering not only 
your own life but the lives of all in the boat.” 

“But my child, sir, my child!” 

“I am very sorry, Madam, but it is impossible to go 
back now. She will be sent down in the next boat, and 
when we are all afloat I shall do all in my power to 
have her transferred to this one.” 

With a moan, the poor mother sank to the seat. Only 
two persons had witnessed the scene, which lasted but a 
moment. The officer and the sailors were too busy at- 
tending to the boat, and the passengers too engrossed 
with their own comfort and safety to pay any attention 
to what was going on around them. The warm-hearted 
Irish-woman, who strove in her own simple way to com- 
fort the stricken mother, was one of the witnesses; a 
little cabin boy, hidden under a pile of ropes in the bow 
of the boat, was the other. Never, to their dying mo- 
ment, would either of them forget that picture. The 
agonized mother, the terrified little child, and the dark 
handsome face of the woman on the deck, whose voice 
rang in their ears for many and many a day. 

“The name is Bruce,” murmured Mrs. Selwyn, vain- 
ly straining her eyes for a glimpse of the bright red 
cloak, which, when those terrible words were utterd, 
had disappeared from the railing. Over and over she 
repeated, “Brace is the name, Bruce is the name,” un- 
til the motherly woman at her side drew her close, 
whispering, “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 


41 


darlint. I’ll remember it for ye. Why, ’tis that aisy 
I know it by heart, already. Rest your head here on 
my shoulder, that’s a good child. No, ye’d better let 
me kape this little one. Sure, she’s as loight as a feather, 
and ye’ll be needin’ both yer arms to mother the other 
darlint in a few minutes.” She wrapped the shawl 
about the frail shivering figure. 

By this time the boat had reached the water, the ropes 
were cast off, and with a few strong pulls the sailors 
soon put fifty yards between them and the ship. 

“Not too far, boys,” cautioned the officer. “The Cap- 
tain’s orders are to keep as near as possible to the other 
boats so as to avoid being run down in this fog. ’ ’ 

The sailors rested on their oars, and all eyes were 
fixed on the one bright spot they had left behind. Every 
deck and porthole was ablaze with light, and the great 
white vessel stood out plainly against the dark sky ; but 
heavy masses of fog rolled between her and the anxious 
watchers in the boats, making it impossible to distin- 
guish anything. Occasionally, through a rift in the 
fog, a boat could be seen slowly descending, but it was 
useless to try to discern its occupants. The officer hailed 
one which, judging by its lantern, was approaching 
them. 

“Have you a child aboard?” he shouted; and through 
the fog came back the muffled answer, “No, sir.” 

A shudder passed through her slender frame as Mrs, 
Selwyn realized, with sinking heart, the difficulty there 
would be in recovering her lost darling in that dark- 
ness. Mrs. O’Malley whispered reassuringly, “Kape 
up yer heart, alanna; ’twill be but a little time now 
until the other ships come, and then ye’ll have the beau- 
tiful baby again. ’ ’ 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bruce, or rather Mrs. Ashmere as 
we shall henceforth know her, had made her way through 
the crowd to a point far down the deck, determined to 
put as great a distance as possible between herself and 
her sister-in-law. The struggling, screaming child in 


42 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


her arms rendered calm thinking impossible, and as yet 
her schemes for keeping Berta in her possession were 
extremely vague. Before embarking at Liverpool, she had 
seen Mrs. Selwyn’s name on the list of passengers, and, 
fearing to be recognized, had at the last moment pre- 
sented to the steamship authorities a letter stating that 
Mrs. Ashmere, on account of illness, would be unable 
to sail on the out-going steamer, hut that her friend, 
Mrs. Bruce, had purchased her ticket from her. Never 
having met her brother’s wife, she felt quite sure that 
by changing her name she could avoid recognition. She 
might, however, have spared herself all anxiety; for 
Mrs. Selwyn had never heard of her marriage to Her- 
bert Ashmere, and knew her sister-in-law only as Bertha 
Selwyn, who bitterly blamed her brother’s wife for his 
conversion to the Catholic faith. Therefore, when she 
made herself known in the manner above described, the 
intelligence fell like a thunder-bolt on the unsuspecting 
young mother. But what was it to Bertha Ashmere 
that another suffered if she but gained her own selfish 
ends. With a threat of future punishment to the terri- 
fied baby, she at length succeeded in obtaining a place 
in a boat far down the deck. 

As the last of the life-boats reached the water, a loud 
cheer from the sailors who manned her announced to 
the neighboring boats that, with the exception of the 
Captain and the first mate, not a human being remained 
on the great steamer. The two mentioned stood on the 
bridge ready with rockets to signal the expected rescu- 
ing vessels. Boat after boat took up the cheer, which 
was suddenly drowned by a deafening crash. Instantly 
the ship was in darkness, and, rolling heavily over on 
her side, began to sink rapidly. The roar of the water, 
as it poured into the terrible rent made by the floating 
ice, struck terror into the hearts of the bravest. 

“Pull for your lives!” shouted the officers. “She’s 
sinking fast and will draw us all down with her!” 

The sailors bent to their oars and the boats leaped 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 


43 


forward over the black waters until the officers thought 
a sufficient distance had been covered, when all sat in 
silence awaiting the end. A tiny light, shed by an oil- 
lamp high up in the main-mast, indicated by its rapid 
descent just how fast the vessel was sinking. It stood 
still for a moment, wavered, then disappeared, as with 
a final plunge the proud Helena sank to the bottom. 

A deathlike silence fell over the “Graveyard of the 
Atlantic.” Every soul in the boats thought of “what 
might have been,” and many a prayer of fervent grati- 
tude winged its way to the great white throne. 

“God be merciful to the poor Captain and the one 
that was with him!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Malley. 

“AMEN!” came from every one in the boat, for 
though few were Catholics, the simple prayer of the 
warm-hearted woman was echoed by all. 

“Do you think they had any chance, sir?” asked 
one of the sailors in a low tone. 

“Hardly, unless they were thrown overboard when 
she first keeled over and were picked up by one of the 
boats on the other side. If they waited to make their 
escape when she sank, they would have been drawn 
down with her.” 

"While the officer spoke, an anxious expression crept 
over his face, for, look where he would, not a glimmer 
of light could he see. What had become of the other 
boats? Where were their lights which had been at 
least dimly visible through the fog. Had they, in their 
attempts to put a safe distance between themselves and 
the sinking Helena , pulled so far away that their lan- 
terns were no longer to be seen ? Or had the fog simply 
become more dense ? These were the questions that now 
perplexed him. The answer to the last could be easily 
ascertained. Making a trumpet of his hands, he hal- 
looed in every direction, but silence was the only answer. 
Fearing to become even more separated from their com- 
panions, all agreed that it would be safer to remain where 
they were and trust to searchlights of the coming steam- 


44 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


ers. There was no danger that they would come and 
go without making a thorough search for every boat, 
and, as all were numbered, any one of them would be 
quickly missed. It was two o’clock and another hour 
ought to bring the rescuers. In the dim light of the 
lantern, Mrs. Selwyn saw Beth’s wondering eyes fixed 
on her. Well might the poor child look frightened, for 
never before had she seen her mother’s face so drawn 
and haggard. The broken-hearted woman took the little 
one into her arms and strove to reassure her, but the 
kisses were mingled with a shower of burning tears and 
the child was more bewildered than before. She was 
cold, oh ! so cold, and her clothing was wet through by 
the water which had dashed over the sides of the boat 
in the rapid pull from the sinking ship. Mrs. Selwyn 
noticed it at once, but, beyond wrapping her own shawl 
closely about the shivering little form, she was powerless. 
The child strove to speak but her voice was hoarse, and 
the hard little cough that shook the frail frame caused 
the anxious lines in the mother’s face to deepen. 

1 ‘ Where we is, muzzer?” 

“In a little boat darling, but try not to talk. It will 
make your throat sore.” 

“It do hurt now, way, way down.” 

“I’m so sorry, dear. Go to sleep again and mother 
will try to get you into a nice warm bed soon.” Then 
as the little thing dozed off, the poor mother’s tears 
flowed afresh, the pallid lips murmuring over and over, 
“My little lost child, my little lost child.” 

The officer, seeing the little girl in her arms, thought 
that this was the child she had pleaded for when the 
boat was being lowered. He was busy at the ropes at 
the time, and as all the ladies carried as many of their 
possessions as they could gather in a shawl, he had not 
noticed that Mrs. Selwyn ’s burden differed from theirs. 
So he very naturally thought that some friend, or the 
nurse perhaps, had brought the child into the boat while 
the mother was looking for her on deck. 


Off the Newfoundland Banks 45 

The moments dragged on, and Mrs. Selwyn’s thoughts 
travelled back over the days which had elapsed since 
the Helena left Liverpool. Bitterly she reproached her- 
self for her short-sightedness. It was all so clear now ; 
the efforts of her sister-in-law to win Berta’s affection, 
her inquiries about the other members of the family, 
her interest in the account of Mr. Selwyn’s death, her 
return at the risk of her own life to prevent Mrs. Sel- 
wyn from going to the forward end of the deck where 
she would be recognized and assisted, and where old 
Aunt Mandy was probably waiting for her. Why had 
not Berta’s instinctive dislike for the woman put her on 
her guard? The child had never behaved in that man- 
ner before. But what would the woman have done had 
there been no wreck? Was Berta’s abduction part of 
a well-planned scheme, or had the aunt merely seized 
the opportunity which presented itself? And how did 
she expect to carry out her threat, for once on board 
the rescuing steamer she could have no reasonable hope 
of concealing the child from the anxious mother. In 
spite of this reassuring thought, Mrs. Selwyn’s heart 
was heavy with forebodings, and her memory carried 
her back to her wedding journey, when Robert took 
her to his old Virginia home. How proud and happy 
he was as they drove up the long avenue from the gates, 
and he pointed out to her the many haunts of his boy- 
hood. How her heart ached for him when they reached 
the house where there was no one to bid them welcome, 
— no one but old black Ephraim, whom Robert had be- 
friended in bygone days, and who had braved the anger 
of the master, and possible dismissal, rather than be 
disloyal to “young Massa.” The old servant told them 
how Bertha had poisoned the aged father ’s mind against 
the elder brother because of his conversion to the Cath- 
olic faith and his marriage to a Catholic, and how she 
had insisted on his absenting himself from the old home 
until her brother’s visit should be over. Ah yes, Bertha 
Selwyn’s hatred was deep and bitter, and Mrs. Selwyn 
shuddered to think of her darling in the power of such 


46 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


a woman. She pictured the piteous distress of the little 
one through all these dark, cold hours, and with clasped 
hands and bowed head she clung to the child in her 
arms while her bursting heart sent forth the prayer, 
4 ‘Mother of Sorrows and Mercy! by thy cruel agony at 
the loss of thy divine Son, restore to me my child.” 
Over and over she repeated the words, her beads slip- 
ping through her fingers, until at length, soothed by 
the rocking of the boat and overcome by exhaustion, 
her head fell against Mrs. O’Malley’s shoulder and she 
slept. An hour passed. The cold was piercing. Mrs. 
O’Malley wrapped part of her own shawl about the 
sleeping mother and child. The officer strove hard to 
conceal his anxiety and with the sailors kept a sharp 
lookout on all sides. Where were the boats? Was it 
possible that they had been drawn down by the Helena 
at that last awful moment? It could not be. Most of 
them were at the time farther from the ship than his 
boat. Another hour. Not a gleam of light, not a sound. 
Would the steamers never come? 


CHAPTER V. 


RESCUE. 

And what had become of the other boats? 

Unlike Number 16 , they had no trouble in keeping to- 
gether, and when an hour or so after the Helena went 
down, lights were dimly seen both to the east and to 
the west of them, great indeed was the rejoicing. A 
large steamer bound for New York, and another which 
had just left that port, appeared simultaneously on the 
scene ; they were soon joined by a third, eastward bound. 
The great search-lights played on the crowded life-boats, 
and after ascertaining the number of persons they con- 
tained, the pursers on two of the ships declared that 
between them they could accommodate all the ship- 
wrecked. When it was discovered that Number 16 was 
missing, it was decided that the third steamer should 
remain in the locality of the wreck to make a thorough 
search, even should it require part of the next day to 
accomplish it. 

Bertha Ashmere well knew the number of the boat 
which held Mrs. Selwyn and Beth, and, hearing of its 
disappearance, her one care was to avoid a meeting 
with Aunt Mandy. If she could but reach a stateroom 
before she was discovered, all would be well. Fortu- 
nately Berta had sobbed herself to sleep, and wrapped 
as she was in blankets and shawls, one might easily mis- 
take her for a bundle of either. Being among the first 
taken on board, Mrs. Ashmere hurried to the stateroom 
allotted her. 

Hardly had she disappeared from the deck than poor 
Aunt Mandy, her old black face ashen with fear and 
anxiety, made her way to the purser exclaiming, “Oh 
sah ! whar is ma Miss ’Lisbuf an ’ dem beautiful babies ? ’ ’ 

“Miss Elizabeth?’’ questioned the purser. 

47 


48 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Yas sah, Mrs. Selwyn an’ her chillun. Hab dey 
come up heah, yet? She’ll need me powahful bad to 
help git dem bressed lambs to bed. I’se her nu’se, I is. 
Ben in de fambly sixty-foah yeahs, I sartinly has.” 

“Mrs. Selwyn ’s name is not here, my good woman,” 
said the officer consulting a list he held, “but all of the 
passengers are not yet aboard, and if she does not come 
on with them, she is probably on the other ship. Wait 
here and see for yourself, and in a few moments I will 
make inquiries of the purser on the other vessel.” 

The faithful old darkey stood scanning each face and 
questioning those passengers who had known Mrs. Sel- 
wyn ; but all in vain. When the purser finally told her 
that her mistress must be in the missing boat, her grief 
was pitiful to see. It was useless to assure her that the 
third steamer would find Number Sixteen. She begged 
to be put on that steamer so as to be where she could 
take care of her charges when they were found. When 
told this could not be, she demanded to be put off again 
in one of the life-boats that she might search for herself. 

“Marse Frank done tol’ me, ‘Tek good care of Miss 
’Lisbuf an’ dem babies, Aunt Mandy’; an’ I sho’ hab 
teken de bestest care I knowed how, an’ does yo’ think 
I kin go back an ’ face him an Miss Mayree wif out dem ? 
No, sah! Oh, why foah de good Lawd didn’t tek dis 
poah ole niggah an’ spare dem beautiful lambs!” cried 
the poor soul sinking into a chair and rocking back and 
forth in overwhelming grief. 

Down in the stateroom another scene was taking 
place. Berta had wakened, feverish and excited, but 
when Mrs. Ashmere approached the bed, the child bu- 
ried her face in the pillows, screaming for her mother. 
The stewardess came in with a tray ; for Mrs. Ashmere, 
determined not to risk discovery by leaving the state- 
room, had ordered the meals served there. Placing the 
tray on a small table, the kind-hearted woman bent over 
the child, who clung to her crying piteously. 


Rescue 


49 


4 ‘She is my niece,” said Mrs. Ashmere, “and her 
mother is dead. I am taking her to my home, but I fear 
I shall have trouble with her.” 

“Muzzer is in ze yitty boat, muzzer and yitty sissoo. 
Oh ! take me to muzzer and old mammy and Bef , ’ ’ 
sobbed the poor baby on the shoulder of the woman who 
held her close. 

“She saw someone who resembled her mother in one 
of the boats,” nervously remarked Mrs. Ashmere, “I 
wish we could get her to eat something.” 

“The child is ill,” replied the stewardess. “I shall 
ask the doctor to step in as soon as he can. She has 
a high fever and all this excitement is bad for her. 
Come, dear,” she said soothingly to Berta, “let me 
put you to bed. You must have a good sleep and then 
you will feel better.” 

“Will muzzer turn zen?” asked the child. 

“I don’t know, but Auntie will stay with you, so 
you musn’t be afraid,” replied the stewardess. 

“Who is Auntie?” 

“Why, I am, darling,” exclaimed Mrs. Ashmere, 
drawing near. “I am your Aunt Bertha.” 

“No, no, no! ’oo isn’t my auntie,” cried the child, 
clinging tightly to the stewardess. “Go way, go way! 
I is af’aid of ’oo. Muzzer neber told me ’oo was my 
auntie. ’Oo is Mrs. Beuce, ’oo is. ’Oo held me tight 
so I touldn’t go to muzzer. Oh,” appealingly to the 
stewardess, “ ’Oo will find muzzer for me, won’t ’oo? 
I love ’oo, and I want ’oo to stay wif me till muzzer 
turns. But make her go way,” waving her chubby hand 
towards Mrs. Ashmere. 

“The child must be delirious,” declared Mrs. Ash- 
mere, fearing lest the stewardess should repeat anything 
she heard. “She is my brother’s little girl, and her 
parents and little sister died in England a short time 
ago. She was deeply attached to them, and, as I have 
been on the Continent for some years, she never knew 


50 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


me. She has been so docile and contented up to this, 
that I do not know what to make of her now.” 

“I shall stay here until she goes to sleep, and per- 
haps when she feels better she may take kindly to you 
again,” answered the stewardess, at the same time ring- 
ing an electric bell near her. It was promptly answered 
and she sent a message to the doctor requesting his 
presence at once. After some little delay, he came. 
Berta had fallen into a restless sleep, crying out occa- 
sionally for her mother. The doctor ordered that cer- 
tain remedies be given her, and left the room remark- 
ing that the night’s experience was sufficient to upset 
the nerves of anyone. 

The stewardess at last prevailed on Mrs. Ashmere to 
take some rest, promising to look in occasionally to give 
Berta her medicine. The day passed uneventfully. The 
sick child tossed restlessly, refusing to take anything 
except from the stewardess whose every free moment 
Mrs. Ashmere engaged and liberally paid for. By re- 
maining in the stateroom, the latter avoided all risks 
of recognition by those whom she had known on the 
Helena. She had heard no report of the missing boat. 
If its inmates had been rescued by any steamer equipped 
with the Marconi System, she knew that all her schemes 
were useless, for Mrs. Selwyn would most assuredly 
notify Doctor Carlton who would send detectives out 
with the pilot from Sandy Hook. Clearly, in that case, 
there would be no chance of concealment. She would 
be obliged to give up the child, pretending that she had 
retained her only for the little one’s safety. But what 
of the cruel words she had uttered? Well, she could 
doubtless make her escape before being brought face to 
face with Elizabeth Selwyn. However, she had little 
fear that Number 16 had been found. Why was it not 
with the other boats if it had not been drawn down with 
the sinking Helena f Dismissing the detective idea from 
her mind, she gave her attention to the more certain 
dangers which awaited her; namely, the arrival at the 
dock, and the Custom House officials. True, she had 


Rescue 


51 


no baggage, not even a hand satchel, for inspection. 
Her trunks, containing costly laces and rare treasures, 
picked up in her wanderings about Europe, were all 
safe enough at the bottom of the Atlantic. Gladly 
would she give them all for the love of Robert’s beau- 
tiful child lying asleep before her. And then, between 
her and the flushed face on the pillow, there rose an- 
other, pale, haggard, upturned to her own. With a cry, 
she covered her eyes to shut out the sight. 

“What!” she exclaimed, “will you haunt me now? 
Hasn’t my life been miserable enough on your account? 
You took from me the only being on earth I really loved. 
The child would have been drowned anyway if I had 
let her jump. No, no ! it is all imagination. My nerves 
are unstrung,” and she set herself resolutely to the 
consideration of her plans. The only real danger that 
she had to fear in the Custom House was the delay, and 
she felt sure that she could prevail on the officials to 
allow her to proceed on her way. She fully realized 
that she ran her greatest risk when leaving the steamer. 
There was no possibility of her being recognized by Dr. 
Carlton whom she had not met for years, but how was 
she to avoid the friends she had made on board the 
Helena, all of whom knew Berta ? Above all, how elude 
Aunt Mandy? She knew the faithful old darkey was 
on the same ship with her; for, while Berta slept, the 
stewardess had given a detailed description of her grief 
at the loss of Mrs. Selwyn and the children. Doubtless 
everyone by this time had heard the story. Then came 
the thought, — “How many of the first-class passengers 
are aboard this steamer ? Perhaps none who Imow me. ’ ’ 
By dint of cautious inquiries she ascertained that her 
friends had been picked up by the other vessel. Quickly, 
then, she made her plans. By taking her place early on 
deck, near the railing, she could avoid mixing with the 
crowd and be one of the first to leave the vessel. She 
felt sure that Aunt Mandy would linger after the others 
in hope of hearing some news of the missing ones. The 
old servant would certainly be in no hurry to meet the 


52 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Doctor. There was still one more problem. Would 
Berta submit quietly to being carried off the steamer? 
If she happened to be asleep, all would be well. If not, 
Mrs. Ashmere felt sure there would be a scene, for the 
child still showed the greatest aversion for her and 
whenever she came near cried loudly for her mother. 
Without question, then, Berta must be asleep when the 
vessel docked. To secure this end, Mrs. Ashmere, com- 
plaining of need of rest, obtained from the doctor some 
sleeping powders. She had not the least idea how much 
of one of these she could safely give so young a child, 
and dared not ask advice for fear of arousing suspicion. 
Having learned that the vessel, though the slower of 
the two rescuing steamers, would, nevertheless, reach 
New York the following morning, Wednesday, about 
ten o’clock, some hours earlier than the Helena had been 
expected there, she thought by administering the pow- 
der at eight in the morning, she could safely count on 
Berta’s being in a heavy sleep when they arrived at the 
docks. Then, wrapping her well in blankets and 
concealing her beneath the large shawl she herself in- 
tended to wear, she hoped to escape unnoticed. Look- 
ing at her watch, she saw that it was only six o’clock. 
Another long night before her. The stewardess entered 
with the supper tray, but Mrs. Ashmere sent it away 
almost untouched, announcing her intention of retiring 
early. Generously rewarding the woman for her kind- 
ness, she told her that, with the exception of bringing 
the breakfast, her services would be no longer required. 
She well knew that the fewer people she had about her 
in the morning, the better it would be for her ends. 

The night dragged on. She heard the bells which 
rang the hours and half-hours, and several times caught 
the faint 4 ‘All’s well” of the lookout far up on the mast, 
shuddering as she remembered all that had followed the 
last “All’s well” of the preceding night. The air in the 
cabin seemed suffocating, and wrapping a heavy shawl 
about her, she made her way to the deck. It was a 
glorious night. The sky was studded with stars, but 


Kescue 


53 


to her they seemed like so many accusing eyes. As she 
neared the end of the deck she became aware that she 
was not alone, and started as she recognized the bowed 
form of Aunt Mandy leaning against the railing. By 
the light of a neighboring electric lamp she could see the 
haggard face, the lips moving in prayer as the well- 
worn beads slipped through the withered fingers, and 
the tearful eyes straining to see through the darkness 
the lights of the ship which she fondly hoped had suc- 
ceeded in finding her lost darlings. No one had the 
heart to tell her that the Captain had, before noon that 
day, received a wireless message to the effect that the 
search which had been prolonged far into the morning 
had proved fruitless. 

A wave of remorse swept over the soul of Bertha 
Ashmere as she fled from the deck back to her cabin; 
but she once more steeled herself against all emotion, 
and throwing herself on her bed, fell into a troubled 
sleep. When she awoke she was surprised to see Berta 
sitting up, regarding her with big, wondering eyes. The 
flush of fever was gone and the child looked refreshed 
after a good night’s sleep. 

“Where is my muzzer, Mrs. Beuce?” she demanded 
with the gravity of a judge. The stewardess bringing 
in the breakfast was obliged to turn her back to hide the 
smile she could not repress. “No, ’oo stay over zere, 
but I want my muzzer yight now,” as Mrs. Ashmere 
rose to approach her. “I don’t want ’oo, I want muz- 
zer, and if ’oo don’t get her yight twick I’ll have to go 
find her mine own self, ’tause I want her; and ven she 
turns ’oo’ll have to go way, ’tause zis house is too yitty 
for so many peoples. It’s jes’ bid ’nuf for muzzer and 
yitty sissoo and me. ’ ’ 

The two women were astonished at this speech, but 
before Mrs. Ashmere could make up her mind what to 
reply, the look of dignity vanished suddenly, the little 
lips quivered, and with brimming eyes the poor baby 
stretched out her hands to the stewardess, who took her 
in her arms and sat down on the side of the bed. 


54 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


“ Listen, darling. God has taken your mother and 
little sister to heaven and if you are a good girl He will 
take you, too, some day." 

“No, no! muzzer and yitty sissoo went in ze yitty 
boat and Mrs. Beuce wouldn't let me go. Muzzer 
wouldn’t go way off to Hebben and leave her baby. 
Fazer's in Hebben, but muzzer 's in ze yitty boat." 

“Yes dear, a long thing like a boat with flowers all 
around it, wasn't it?" 

“I don't 'member nenny flowers," said the child 
thoughtfully, “but lots and lots of peoples making a 
drefful noise." Putting her arms around the woman's 
neck, she drew her head down and whispered in her 
ear, “She say she isn’t Mrs. Beuce, but she am. I know 
she am. Muzzer told me." 

“But darling, this lady's name is Mrs. Ashmere and 
she is your aunt. She looks like Mrs. Bruce, I am quite 
sure, but she is your Aunt Bertha. ' ' 

“Muzzer nebber did say zat," argued the child only 
half convinced, looking fixedly at her aunt. “Her eyes 
am jes' like Mrs. Beuce. I is a’faid of her eyes, I is." 

“You mustn’t be afraid of your auntie. You must 
love her and be a good girl if you want to go to Heaven 
with your mother. ’ ' 

“Is I dood now?" 

“Yes, but you must let me go fix you some breakfast. 
What would you like me to bring you?" 

“Toffee in a yitty chup, and toast," responded Berta 
promptly. 

“And a big orange," added the woman. “Yes, I 
have a nice little cup, just the size for you, and if you 
will lie down now and be good, I'll come back soon with 
your breakfast." 

“All yight," answered the child, lying back on the 
pillows. 

The stewardess left the room, and Mrs. Ashmere, tak- 
ing advantage of Berta's excellent disposition, proceeded 
to make friends with her. The child's solemn eyes made 
her so uncomfortable, that she hardly knew where to 
begin. 


Rescue 


55 


“I have a nice dolly for a good little girl,” she re- 
marked. 

“I don't want nenny dolly. I want my muzzer,” 
declared Berta. 

“I am afraid you will not get to Heaven very fast at 
this rate, young lady.” 

The child fixed her eyes on the ceiling and her lips 
moved as if she were saying something over and over 
to herself. Suddenly Mrs. Ashmere heard men's voices, 
followed by a sharp rap at the door. She hesitated for 
some moments; then, trembling violently, unfastened 
the lock. The door was flung open and the doctor en- 
tered, followed by two men. Mrs. Ashmere, unable to 
utter a word, bowed in response to their salutation and 
stood leaning heavily against the wall. The doctor, ad- 
dressing the elder of his two companions, said, “This, 
sir, is the only child that came aboard with the sur- 
vivors of the wreck. Exposure and too much excite- 
ment brought on a high fever. She is better, I see, this 
morning.” 

The man addressed felt the child's pulse, asked a few 
questions of the ship's doctor, made some notes in a 
small book, and bowing courteously to Mrs. Ashmere, 
withdrew, followed by the others. With an exclama- 
tion of relief, the lady sank into a chair. 

1 ‘ Quarantine officers ! I thought they were detectives ! 
I shall be a nervous wreck before this day is over, ' ' and 
hearing the rattle of dishes outside the door, she strove 
to compose herself before the stewardess could observe 
her agitation. But the latter, entering with a little tray, 
was at once attracted by Berta's preoccupied air. 

“What is it, dear?” she asked. 

“She tailed me ‘youn' lady’,” replied the child, dis- 
dainfully, “and I is only a yitty dirl.” 

“Well, you will soon grow to be a young lady.” 

But Berta shook her head emphatically, exclaiming, 
“No, no! I is going to be a dood yitty dirl and go to 
Hebben.” 


56 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“So you are,” agreed the stewardess. 

She took the child on her lap, and the breakfast was 
soon disposed of. 

“Oh! I fordot sumpin.” 

“What did you forget, dear?” 

“I fordot my gwapes.” 

“Shall I get her some grapes?” asked the woman, 
turning to Mrs. Ashmere. 

“Not zat kind of gwapes, but zis kind.” The child 
made the sign of the cross and began, “Fank ’oo, dear 
Dod, for all zese dood tings, and p’ease take me up to 
Hebben yight twick. Amen.” Then turning to the 
stewardess, she continued, “I said my mornin’ pwayers 
afore she woke up,” jerking her head towards her aunt. 
‘ ‘ She neber did say nenny pwayers at all. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I am sure she did,” replied the woman. “Your 
auntie is a good kind lady who loves you very much, 
and you must mind what she tells you. Good-by now, 
and be a good girl.” 

“I wis’ ’oo would stay wif me and be my auntie. I 
love ’oo, ’ ’ cried the child, clinging to her friend with all 
her small strength. 

“But I can’t, darling. Maybe I’ll come to see you 
some day. How will that do?” 

“Oh, p’ease turn yight twick! Dood-by, I is going to 
be a dood dirl always.” 

The stewardess left the room without realizing the 
powerful weapon she had placed in Bertha Ashmere ’s 
hands. Henceforth, all that the latter had to say was, 
“If you are not a good girl, you can’t go to Heaven 
with your mother,” and Berta would comply with her 
slightest wish. 

As the morning wore on, she became more and more 
nervous. Long before eight o’clock, fearing lest the 
vessel should land sooner than the time announced, she 
proceeded to give Berta the powder. 

“Lie down now, and go to sleep,” she said. 


Rescue 


57 


“But I isn’t fleepy, not one teeny bit.” 

“Well, try to go to sleep, anyway.” 

“ ’Oo is always telling me, ‘Go to deep.’ Muzzer 
neber did say zat all ze time.” 

Mrs. Ashmere paid no heed to this statement, but took 
up a book and attempted to read. The child lay quite 
still, watching her for some time ; then, the powerful 
drug taking effect, she fell into a heavy slumber. Now 
was the time for Mrs. Ashmere to act. She tied a dark 
veil about her head, drawing it far down over her fore- 
head so as to leave very little of her face exposed. 
Wrapping Berta in a blanket, she concealed the child 
as much as possible beneath her heavy shawl, part of 
which she drew over her head. In ordinary circum- 
stances her strange costume would have excited com- 
ment, but blankets and shawls were almost the only 
wraps the rescued passengers had been able to bring 
from the wreck, so she was only one of many similarly 
attired. Having waited until the passage-ways and halls 
were pretty well deserted, she made her way to the deck 
near the part of the railing where she knew the gang- 
plank would be lowered. Knots of people were gathered 
here and there, but she kept her face turned from them 
and pulled the shawl farther forward. The moments 
seemed hours. Berta slept on in a heavy stupor. In- 
deed, as Mrs. Ashmere arranged the shawl so as to al- 
low more air to reach the child, she was alarmed at the 
increasing pallor of the little face. Had she given her 
an overdose of the drug ? If so, what would be the re- 
sult ? Suppose she should lose the child after all. These 
and many thoughts of like nature swarmed through her 
brain, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw 
the two tugs at last securely fastened to the steamer. The 
passengers began to crowd forward, but she kept her 
place. She could see the throngs of people on the dock, 
eagerly awaiting the moment when the big vessel should 
come to a standstill. At last, when the gang-plank was 
in place, cheer upon cheer rose from hundreds of throats. 
The regular passengers allowed the rescued to descend 


58 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


first. Mrs. Ashmere waited until two or three such 
groups had passed, then followed so closely after one of 
them that she might easily have been mistaken by the 
onlookers for a member of the party. As she neared 
the end of the gang-plank, she saw Doctor Carlton, 
whom she recognized from his likeness to his sister, 
standing as close as possible to the rail. Her heart almost 
ceased to beat as she passed him. Then, hastening to one 
of the Custom House officials, she quickly convinced him 
that she had nothing for inspection, and was allowed 
to proceed on her way. She entered a cab, ordering the 
driver to take her at once to the nearest hospital, for 
she was really alarmed about Berta. The old doctor 
whom she saw there listened impatiently to the story 
she told of having given the drug to ease excessive pain 
in the head from which the child had for some time been 
suffering. 

“Is she your child ?” he demanded gruffly. 

“My niece.” 

“It’s a good thing you weren’t blessed with any of 
your own. They’d all be dead long ago if you treated 
them like this, ’ ’ he declared, scolding and fuming about 
the foolishness of women in general, while he admin- 
istered to Berta something to counteract the effects of 
the powder. He then ordered Mrs. Ashmere to engage 
a room in the hospital until the next day, and to do all 
in her power to rouse the child. But to remain over 
night in New York was out of the question. When she 
told the doctor of her determination to leave the city 
that afternoon, the old man declared that he would not 
answer for the consequences of so rash a proceeding. 
In spite of all remonstrances, Bertha Ashmere ordered 
a carriage to take her to the station, where she boarded 
a train for Albany, in the suburbs of which city her 
beautiful home was situated. 

Meanwhile a touching scene had taken place at the 
dock. From the time the news of the disaster had 
reached New York, Doctor Carlton had haunted the 
steamship offices and the docks, eagerly seizing any scrap 


Rescue 


59 


of information that had been received there. Break of 
day, Wednesday, found him again on the dock, for 
though his sister’s name was among the missing, he 
hoped against hope that there had been a mistake, or 
that the captains of the rescuing vessels had received 
some late news of Number 16. Until that boat was sat- 
isfactorily accounted for, he would not give up. Besides, 
he must look out for Aunt Mandy whom he well knew 
was overwhelmed with grief at her separation from her 
charges. 

When the first steamer was securely moored, he took 
his place at the foot of the gang-plank, anxiously scan- 
ning the different groups that passed. Not even the 
sight of Aunt Mandy rewarded his scrutiny. Another 
weary wait for the second steamer! In the meantime, 
he sought out the captain of the first and learned all 
that the latter knew of the wreck and the subsequent res- 
cue. Then he made his way to the dock where the second 
vessel was expected, and after what seemed an etern- 
ity, he once more saw the gang-plank firmly fixed. It 
was with difficulty that he restrained his desire to push 
aside the presiding officer and rush up on the deck. 
Group after group passed him, to be met and embraced 
by loved ones on the dock. Where was Aunt Mandy? 
With a word of explanation to the officer, the Doctor 
started up the incline, but he had gone only a few feet 
when he saw the bowed form of the old servant about 
to descend. In her trembling hands she still clutched 
the big green umbrella, and tears of disappointment and 
fresh grief rained down the withered cheeks; for she 
had waited to see the captain, who had nothing new to 
tell her. Hastening towards her, the Doctor grasped 
her by both hands. 

“0 Marse Frank, Marse Frank honey,” sobbed the 
poor old creature. 

“There, there, Auntie, don’t try to talk now,” he 
said soothingly, leading her on and on, past the happy 
groups that paused sympathetically in their gay chatter 
to watch the oddly mated pair. At last the carriage was 


60 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


reached, and, after almost lifting the old woman into 
it, the Doctor took his place beside her. In spite of his 
longing to hear her story, he waited patiently for her 
to begin. When she had somewhat mastered her emo- 
tion, she regarded him silently for some moments, then 
began in a low tone, “Marse Frank, honey, yo’ doan 
think as how I didn’t tek good care ob dem, does yo’, 
honey ? ’ ’ 

“No, Auntie, a thousand times no! We all feel that 
you would have given your life for them if you had had 
the chance.” 

“I sho’ would, Marse Frank, I sho’ would. De only 
trubble war I neber did git de chance; kase when dat 
ship war hit, I wuz frowed up agin de wall wif sech 
turrible ambition dat I neber knowed nuffin fo’ de good 
Lawd knows how long. When I done got ma senses back, 
I heerd folkses runnin’ ober ma haid, an I done grabbed 
some blankits and dis yeah umbrell an’ lit out fo’ Miss 
Lisbuf’s room. But when I got thar it war plumb 
empty; so I grabbed mo’ blankits and ran up to de deck, 
an’ de officer he done say all de fust-class folkses war 
gone down already in dem little boats an’ he knowed 
what he war talkin’ ’bout, he said. An’ he put dis poah 
ole niggah in a boat asayin’ as how I’d soon be wif ma 
mist ’ess again. An’ when we wuz all took up on de 
odder ships I hunted an’ hunted, an’ axed an’ axed, an’ 
de capting he done inquiahed on de odder ship, an’ 
nobuddy had seed Miss ’Lisbuf an’ dem bressed lambs, 
an’ den dey done say dey must be in Numbah 16; an’ 
dey lef’ de ship to find dat Numbah 16, an’ I wanted to 
stay an’ help, but de capting wouldn’t heah on it no- 
how. An’ de capting jes’ done tole me they cain’t find 
it, an’ 0! Marse Frank, Marse Frank! why fo’ de good 
Lawd didn’t tek dis wufless ole niggah an’ spare dem 
bressed lambs!” and the poor old woman once more 
abandoned herself to her grief. The Doctor himself 
was too much overcome to speak. He was glad when 
the carriage stopped and Liza and Tom came out to 
claim their grandmother. 


Rescue 


61 


Hastening to a neighboring church, the strong man 
gave vent to his sorrow. Suddenly he started up. Might 
not the missing boat have been picked up by some slow 
vessel not equipped with the Marconi System? If so, 
the news would not yet have reached New York. It was 
only one chance in a thousand and — still, it was a 
chance. Leaving the church, he made his way once more 
to the steamship offices, where he had become a familiar 
figure. He was shown into the private office of Mr. 
Burton, a friend of his, who listened attentively to his 
proposition. 

“Doctor, I must admit that there is such a chance. 
The thing is not impossible ; but, as man to man, I must 
tell you that it is highly improbable. If the missing 
boat were not drawn down with the sinking ship, why 
was it not with the others when the rescuing steamers 
arrived? Even granting that, owing to the dense fog, 
it became somewhat separated from them, the sailors 
would never 'have pulled so far *!rom the scene of the 
wreck as to be beyond range of the powerful search 
lights used on such occasions. Then, as you have heard, 
the third vessel remained until far into the next day 
and, the fog having lifted, made a thorough search of 
the neighboring waters. No, Doctor, to be perfectly 
candid with you, I cannot see that there is a ghost of a 
chance, and from my heart I sympathize with you.” 

“It would not be quite so bad if it weren’t for the 
child, ’ ’ the Doctor whispered, huskily. ‘ ‘ She is all alone, 
now.” 

“Why man, no father could be more devoted than 
you are to that little girl. Between you and Mother 
Madeline, she is well provided for, indeed.” 

But the Doctor shook his head sadly. 

“You don’t know my niece, sir. I love her as if she 
were my own child, and the little thing is very fond of 
me. She has never caused me a moment’s anxiety, but 
— I am not her father. Even I, knowing her as I do, 
was surprised at the depth of feeling she showed when 


62 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


I told her of his death, and now ” he dropped his 

head in his hands. 

“She knows nothing yet?” 

“Nothing, except that there has been a delay.” 

1 1 Then I should tell her no more for a few days. Not 
that I really have any hope — I wish I had — but strange 
things have happened in cases of this kind, and, as I 
said, may happen again. Wait a day or two.” 

“Yes, I think it will be the better way. I have 
warned my sister at the Convent, and I trust there is 
no danger that the child will hear of the disaster.” 

Wringing his friend’s hand, the Doctor left the office. 

Was there nothing he could do? Would it be of any 
avail to send telegrams and cablegrams to the various 
ports? No; for he well knew that news of the missing 
boat, received at any one of them, would be instantly 
wired to New York. There was nothing to do but wait. 

As his mind reverted to Mary, he suddenly remem- 
bered that the morrow would be Commencement Day, 
and he pictured the child’s bitter disappointment at his 
absence. But he could not go. He had sent a special 
delivery to Mother Madeline when the news of the 
wreck first reached him ; since then he had several times 
communicated with her over the ’phone, for he feared 
that he could not see his sister at the Convent without 
Mary’s hearing of his visit. He would ’phone again, 
telling her what little he had learned during the morn- 
ing, and cautioning her to keep the child in ignorance 
tfor a while longer. 


CHAPTER VI. 


COMMENCEMENT DAY. 

Old Dan sat in state on a rustic bench, just inside 
the big gates. He was there to do honor to the friends 
and patrons of Maryvale, who were arriving from the 
city to attend the Commencement Exercises. Already 
one of the trains was in, and as everything on wheels 
had been pressed into service to convey the guests from 
the station to the Convent, Dan had little time for re- 
flection between the arrival of one vehicle and the next. 
Occasionally a big automobile swung through the gates 
and swept up the broad driveway. Everyone had a 
kind word for the aged gardener, for the oldest among 
them could not remember a Commencement Day that 
Dan was not at his post to bid them welcome. Indeed, 
Maryvale without Dan would be like the northern 
heavens without the Pole Star. Very early that morn- 
ing he had attired himself, not in his Sunday best, but 
in a suit reserved for great occasions only, — Christmas, 
Easter, Mother’s Feast, and Commencement Day. The 
silk hat and frock coat of a style worn fifty years be- 
fore ; the shining collar and bright tie ; the gold-headed 
cane, white kid gloves, gay silk pocket-handkerchief, 
and the patent leather boots were all familiar to the 
guests. Not so the expression of anxiety and preoccu- 
pation which today clouded the usually beaming coun- 
tenance. The old man seemed to be in a brown study 
and almost allowed two or three vehicles to pass without 
the customary salute. Presently there was a lull in the 
arrivals. Dan arose and went out the gate as far as the 
road. After a long look in both directions, he took out 
his big gold watch and saw that there was still a quar- 
ter of an hour before the next train was due. Return- 
ing to the bench, he peered about him into the shrub- 
bery, and when satisfied that he was entirely alone, 

63 


64 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


adjusted his spectacles and carefully drew from an in- 
side pocket a crumpled newspaper. Spreading it out 
on his knee, he looked sadly at the large picture which 
occupied half the front page, — a great ocean liner from 
which the life-boats were being lowered. For the for- 
tieth time the crooked old finger followed the print, line 
after line, as he read aloud the account of the wreck of 
the Helena , every few moments glancing furtively about 
him, like a school-boy fearing to he caught in some mis- 
chief. 

“My poor little lady! My poor little lady!” he mur- 
mured over and over again. “First her father, and 
now this. I wonder if they know it up yonder,” with 
a nod in the direction of the Convent. “She doesn't 
yet, or she'd have told me last night. ‘Mr. Daniel,' sez 
she to me, ‘you know I've been expecting Uncle today, 
but something must have happened to detain him.' 
Them was her very words. ‘Detain him,' sez she to me. 
‘So I'll have to be patient till the morning,' sez she. 
And all the time she was talkin' and rattlin' on about 
them babies and her mother, 'twas all I could do to keep 
in from cryin', aknowin' as I did about this 'er,” tap- 
ping the paper before him. “She'll be disappointed 
again about her uncle, for that man'll never come out 
here today, aknowin' what he knows, thinks I.” Again 
he fell to musing, wiping his eyes occasionally with the 
gorgeous handkerchief. 

Mary had been at the Convent only a few days when 
her love and care of growing things won his old heart. 
She was the only one of all the children privileged to 
enter his flower garden ; and in the pocket of his work- 
ing coat he always carried a clean newspaper with which 
he carefully lined the wheel-barrow that served as a 
carriage for his “little queen.” Even though she had 
to ride backwards and let her feet dangle, she thoroughly 
enjoyed being trundled up and down the rose alleys and 
in and out among the beautiful flower-beds, her raptur- 
ous exclamations at sight of the “dear little rose-buds” 
and fair white lilies pleasing the old man mightily. He 


Commencement Day 


65 


never let her go without a bunch of her favorite flowers 
for Our Blessed Mother’s altar; for though he raised 
all his flowers to the end that they might adorn the 
sanctuary, he felt that their value was enhanced when 
they were offered through the hands of this innocent 
little child. The previous evening she had asked espe- 
cially for two tiny rose-buds — a white one for Beth, 
and a red one for Berta — which she placed in a tiny 
vase at the feet of our Lady’s statue, with a prayer for 
the safety of her darlings. The old man almost choked 
at the remembrance, and had great trouble recovering 
his composure when he heard the sound of wheels on 
the hard road outside. The last train was in. No sign 
of Doctor Carlton. Suddenly he remembered that the 
Doctor always brought his little niece a large bouquet 
on this day, and muttering, “Well, she’ll not be disap- 
pointed there, at any rate, ’ ’ he hobbled across the lawn 
towards the garden. 

And where was the object of all this solicitude ? Im- 
mediately after breakfast she had returned to her little 
room, which she put in apple-pie order, then proceeded 
to dress for the exercises. They were always held in 
the morning so that the pupils who lived at a distance 
might have plenty of time to reach New York and catch 
the evening trains to their homes. With the exception 
of the graduates, very few took part in the exercises, it 
being a rare thing for a child of Mary’s age to appear, 
unless for premiums. During the year, several recitals 
were given ; and the juniors, as well as the seniors, had a 
play early in the spring. Only great proficiency in music 
or elocution entitled a pupil to a place on the Commence- 
ment program. Mary, who really had remarkable talent 
for the former, was about to make her first appearance 
alone in public. She had before this taken part in 
numerous entertainments, but always in company with 
the girls of her class. 

With many a little tremor she performed her simple 
toilet, and her excitement was increased by the fact that 
she expected her mother and little sisters; for though 


66 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Mother Madeline, complying with her brother’s wishes, 
had on the previous day told her that a delay in the 
arrival of the ship would prevent her uncle’s coming 
after her, the poor child never suspected that any serious 
accident had taken place, and confidently looked for- 
ward to a happy reunion with her loved ones. Not a 
hint of last night’s ’phone message had she heard. All 
had agreed that until there was not the faintest doubt 
of the loss of Number 16 , the child should be left in 
ignorance of what had happened. So the little maid 
sang gaily as she brushed her fair, shining hair; and 
Sister Austin ’s heart throbbed with pity when she heard 
the sounds issuing through the open transom and 
thought of the terrible blow which would, in all prob- 
ability, so soon descend on the happy child. 

There was a light tap on the door and Grace Thorn- 
ton, a girl of sixteen, entered, saying, “I thought you 
might need some help, and as I’m not to be one of the 
performers, I have time to burn this morning.” 

“Oh, thank you so much,” exclaimed Mary. “I’m 
nearly ready. My dress fastens in the back and I was 
just about to go look for someone to button me up.” 

“Why, how spic and span you are in here. All the 
other rooms look like ‘deserted villages’ — not a picture 
nor an ornament to be seen. The girls have packed them 
away for the summer. Do you expect to remain here ? ’ ’ 
“No, Grace, not this year. I usually spend part of 
the vacation here, because Uncle Frank can’t be away 
for more than six weeks ; but this summer it will all be 
different. Mother will be home, and that means not only 
being away all vacation, but no more boarding-school, 
either. I want her to see how cozy I’ve been here, be- 
fore I pack all these things.” 

“You’re not coming back in September? Oh, I’m so 
sorry. The girls will all miss you, Mary. ’ ’ 

“Miss me!” exclaimed the child. “Why, lots of them 
hardly know me. I’m not one to get chummy with 
folks, you know.” 


Commencement Day 


67 


‘‘That’s the very reason they like yon. Yon are the 
same to everyone; even the graduates love you. Oh, 
don’t tie your hair back that way. Leave it fluffy and 
hanging. Let me fix it,” insisted Grace, taking the 
comb and proceeding to arrange the long bright ring- 
lets to her own satisfaction. 

‘ ‘ It has grown a lot in two years and a half. Mother 
will think I’m wearing a wig,” declared Mary, laugh- 
ing gaily. 

“Nothing wiggy-looking about that. Now, your dress.” 

“Didn’t Miss Jenkins make it prettily? Mother sent 
the goods for my birthday and this is the first time I ’ve 
worn it.” 

“It’s just darling. I’d love to have one like it. I 
never saw this kind of material before — so soft and 
fine,” exclaimed the older girl, lifting the dainty little 
gown from its wrappings of tissue paper. 

“Mother called it some kind of a queer French name, 
but I’ve forgotten.” 

“Now, go ask Sister Austin if you’ll do,” said Grace, 
“while I put away these things.” 

Mary skipped away to find Sister. 

“Grace told me to ask you if I’ll do, Sister. Do you 
think my hair looks all right without the ribbon ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, dear, wear it that way for a change. Tell 
Grace I can recommend her as a first-class lady’s maid,” 
replied Sister, laughingly. 

Mary returned to Grace and proceeded to entrust her 
with an important secret. 

“I’m going up in the cupola now. to watch,” she an- 
nounced. 

“Mercy on us! in those clothes?” exclaimed Grace, 
horrified. 

“Yes, I cleaned it all up nicely yesterday so there 
isn’t a speck of dust there. If anyone is looking for 
me, you’ll know where I am. All I’m afraid of is that 
when I see them coming, I’ll be in such a hurry to get 


68 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


to them that I’ll fall down the stairs and break my 
bones. ’ ’ 

“You would have a much better view of the drive- 
way from the windows of the German room,” urged 
Grace. “Why, that cupola is so high you couldn’t rec- 
ognize anyone on the ground. The people would look 
like pigmies. Better try the class-room. Then, when 
you see them coming, you can get to the front door in 
time to meet them there.” 

“That’s true,” replied the child. “I wish you’d come 
with me. It’s kind of lonely watching by myself.” 

“Of course I will if you want me. We had better tell 
Sister Austin in case anyone is looking for us.” 

Having obtained the desired permission, they pro- 
ceeded to the class-room used by the German teacher 
and settled themselves at one of the large windows which 
commanded a fine view of the long drive-way. It was 
nine o’clock and the guests soon began to arrive. Mary 
watched eagerly as each vehicle approached the house, 
chattering meanwhile to the older girl about her plans 
for the summer. 

“All the girls must meet mother today before they 
go home. We will stay till evening, I know, because, 
you see, Aunt Mary is mother’s sister and they’ll have 
lots to talk about. Then next year we’ll come out often 
on Saturdays and holidays to spend the day, and maybe 
sometimes I’ll stay — no, no! I don’t think I could ever 
stay another night away from mother. But we shall 
stay all day, — mother and the babies and I. The girls 
all know Uncle Frank, but none of you ever met 
mother. ’ ’ 

Indeed, the girls did know Uncle Frank, who had 
given them many and many a treat, and Mary’s birth- 
day was the topic of conversation for weeks before and 
after that joyous occasion. 

“0 Grace,” continued the child, “if you only knew 
what today means for me. I think it’s going to be the 


Commencement Day 


69 


very happiest day I’ve ever spent.” Then she added 
in a low tone, “If only father were coming, too.” 

Grace saw the child’s eyes fill with tears. Fearing a 
scene, she put her arm around the little girl, saying 
gently, “Don’t dear, you’ll only make your eyes red 
and look like a show. Your dear father wouldn’t come 
back now if he could, so try to think only of the happi- 
ness that’s coming to you. Why,” she added cheer- 
fully, “just look at me. You have a mother, two darl- 
ing little sisters, Mother Madeline, and that uncle who 
simply dotes on you, while I haven’t a single brother 
or sister.” 

“You poor thing,” cried Mary in a tone of infinite 
pity. “But how can your father and mother spare you 
if you’re an only child?” 

“My mother is an invalid and must live up in the 
Adirondacks, so father left the city and bought a home 
there. Oh, it’s a beautiful place, Mary; I want you to 
come there some time. There is a Church in the town 
near which we live, but no school for the older children ; 
that is why I come here.” 

The girls lapsed into silence, listening to the big clock 
on the wall ticking the moments away. 

“It is half-past nine,” observed Grace. “Sister said 
to come down at a quarter to, so that they can begin 
promptly at ten. The Archbishop, with some of the 
priests, always comes on that last train, and Mother 
doesn’t wish to keep him waiting a minute.” 

“Oh, I do hope Uncle won’t wait for that train. If 
I go out to play my piece and see them sitting there, 
I’ll just have to go down and hug them all around be- 
fore I can play a note. Grace,” she continued after a 
pause, “what delays ships?” 

“Lots of things. I was on Lake Erie, once, in a big 
storm, when part of the machinery broke, and the 
steamer could not go ahead until it was repaired. But 
I think fogs are the most ordinary cause of the delays 
of ocean steamers. Aunt Hattie was coming from 


70 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Queenstown last fall, and the vessel was anchored down 
in New York Bay from Wednesday noon until Friday 
afternoon. She said the fog was so dense that she 
couldn’t see three feet beyond the rail of the ship. In 
that case, of course, any sensible captain would anchor 
rather than run the risk of colliding with other boats.” 

‘ ‘But when we’re having such grand weather on land, 
I don’t see how it can be foggy on the sea, especially 
so near the shore.” 

“It does seem strange, but you know yourself what 
awful storms we have up here when they don’t get even 
a drop of rain in New York.” 

“That’s so,” said Mary, relapsing into silence. 

Grace watched the expressive little face as the bright 
eyes eagerly scanned every group that approached. It 
was with reluctance that she at length said, “Come, 
dear, Sister will be waiting for you. They must be com- 
ing on that last train. You go down to the others who 
are to take part, while I slip around to tell Sister Adrian 
to send for you before she takes your mother into the 
hall. Your number comes so far down on the program 
that you’ll have plenty of time to run to the parlor and 
back before you’re needed.” 

1 1 0 Grace, you are just fine for thinking of nice things 
and doing them, too,” exclaimed Mary, throwing her 
arms about the older girl before she danced away. 

But somehow Grace was far from feeling the assur- 
ance her tones conveyed. If there had been a delay, 
she reasoned, would the steamer even yet have arrived 
in New York? She feared the contrary; nevertheless, 
she went to Sister Adrian as she had promised, then 
joined Mary “behind the scenes.” The little girl was 
beginning to look anxious, for the hands of the clock 
pointed to five minutes to ten. 

“Perhaps they missed the train and will come in an 
auto,” suggested one of the girls. 

“I think Uncle would surely have ’phoned if there 
was any more delay,” said Mary, “though maybe he 


Commencement Day 


71 


hasn’t had time. But then he would have told Tom to 
do it, I know.” 

“You just keep on hoping, and pretty soon you’ll 
hear an auto tooting. See if you don’t!” insisted her 
companion. 

So Mary hoped on and would not give up even when 
Sister nodded to her that it was her turn next. “Per- 
haps,” she said to herself, “they came so late that Sis- 
ter Adrian didn’t want them to miss any more of the 
program and took them immediately to the hall.” With 
her fair little face glowing with hope and excitement, 
she went forward to the front of the stage, eagerly 
scanning the sea of faces before her. “Sister always 
puts Uncle near the front, but maybe all those seats 
were taken.” Her eyes traveled over the audience, 
then rested inquiringly on Mother Madeline, who, after 
her first glance at the animated little countenance, had 
fixed her eyes steadfastly on the program in her hand, 
not one word of which could she see. She could not 
trust herself to meet the little one’s frank questioning 
gaze ; for her heart was heavy with grief and filled with 
almost a mother’s compassion for her sister’s beautiful 
child. The greater part of the two nights which had 
elapsed since she had heard of the fate of the Helena, 
had been spent on her knees before the Tabernacle, im- 
ploring for herself and her loved ones the grace and 
strength to hear this new trial. 

The audience noticed the look of disappointment which 
settled on Mary’s face, paler now than was its wont. 
Listlessly she turned towards the piano. There was a 
big lump in her throat and a haze before her eyes. How 
could she play! Then came the thought, “Well, if I am 
disappointed about them, Aunt Mary won’t be disap- 
pointed in me. I owe her the best I can do, and Sister 
Dominic, too, after all the trouble she has taken to 
teach me.” This was succeeded by another thought 
which gave, if possible, added zest to the nimble fingers 
of the little performer. “Maybe they came very late 
and had to stay away down near the door, so that even 


72 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


Aunt Mary doesn't know they are here." As her fingers 
glided over the keys, murmurs of astonishment rose from 
the assembly; even Mother Madeline raised her head in 
surprise. Entirely absorbed in what was going on be- 
fore them, all failed to notice the bent old figure that 
was slowly, but surely edging its way towards the stage. 

The burst of applause which filled the hall before 
she could rise from the piano, astonished Mary. Oh, if 
she could only run away somewhere and hide. But no, 
— Sister Dominic had said she must make a bow; so 
with flushed face and sparkling eyes, she turned to the 
audience. Suddenly, she caught sight of Dan, who had 
at last mounted the steps at the side of the stage and 
was coming towards her, smiling and bowing. 

“0 Mr. Daniel, what beauties! Are those all for 
me?" cried the delighted child, as, forgetful of the sur- 
roundings, she ran to him with hands outstretched for 
the enormous bouquet of Easter lilies which the old 
gardener proudly bore. 

“All for you, my little lady — every blessed one of 
'em. I'm only sorry I haven't twice as many to give 
you," responded Dan heartily, as much pleased at 
Mary's joy as was the little girl with the huge bouquet. 
Taking out the gay handkerchief, he mopped his brow 
vigorously, for he had worked hard and fast in the hot 
sun. 

“But you were saving tnese for the feast tomorrow, 
I just know you were, Mr. Daniel." 

“They'll be all the better for goin' through your 
hands, Miss Mary. I knowed you'd give them to the 
Sacred Heart and," lowering his voice, “if you tell 
Sister to keep 'em in a cool place, they'll be as fresh as 
if I just cut ’em," he insisted, beaming down on the 
little maid, who had all she could do to hold his gift. 

The people gazed, interested spectators of this num- 
ber not down on the program. What a picture it was ! 
The old gardener, hat in hand, the gold-headed cane 
under his arm, the gorgeous handkerchief which, in his 


Commencement Day 


73 


embarrassment, he flourished as a fan; the child, look- 
ing up gratefully into the withered old face. It was 
hard to tell which was the fairer, the mass of beautiful 
flowers, or the little face just above them, which, with 
its halo of golden hair, seemed to radiate purity, love, 
and light. “The Angel of the Resurrection, ’ ’ mur- 
mured an artist in the crowd, planning a picture on 
the spot. 

“You are too good to me, Mr. Daniel, and you have 
made me very happy/ ’ Then in a whisper, “Have 
they come yet?” 

“I hain’t seen ’em, Miss Mary,” he replied nervously. 
“You see, I went to get these, and I don’t know who 
might ha’ come at the last,” he hastened to add, glad 
of an excuse for the unsatisfactory answer. 

Mary’s gaze again wandered over the audience, the 
expression of disappointment once more settling on her 
face, when suddenly realizing that hundreds of eyes 
were fixed on her, she blushed rosy-red and, burying 
her face in the flowers, hastened from the stage. Dan, 
too, overcome with confusion when he found himself 
alone before such an assembly, hurried to descend the 
steps; but the secret he guarded so jealously was too 
much for him, and as he made his way down the aisle, 
the silk handkerchief was needed to wipe away the 
tears. 

“You played like a vision!” exclaimed one of the 
girls when Mary rejoined them. 

* 1 She looks like one, ’ ’ murmured a graduate, wonder- 
ing whether, in after life, she would ever see so fair a 
picture. 

“All take a smell, but please don’t crush them; they 
are for the altar, ’ ’ said Mary, who soon made her escape, 
hastening with her fragrant burden to the sacristy. 
Sister Pierre was not there. Opening the door of the 
sanctuary, the little girl saw that the altar was already 
beautifully decorated with white roses ; for at Maryvale 
the Closing Exercises were always concluded with 


74 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Solemn Benediction. Putting her tiny lace handker- 
chief on her head, she stole in, and kneeling on the altar 
step offered her gift to the Prisoner of Love . As she 
rose to her feet, her eyes fell on a large vase standing 
on the floor near our Lady’s altar. “Just the thing,” 
thought she. Arranging her lilies therein, she knelt 
a few moments in prayer, then hastened down to in- 
quire of Sister Adrian if they had come. Sister, who 
saw her approaching, would gladly have avoided the 
interview, for she knew the question the child would 
ask. So when Mary drew near with an eager, “Sister, 
please, have they come?” she gently replied, “Not yet, 
dear,” and hurried away as if on an errand of great 
importance. 

Thoroughly disappointed, the little girl returned to 
the Chapel. Passing slowly along the corridor, she 
heard the Archbishop addressing the graduates and 
knew that the exercises were over. In the Chapel, she 
went to a pew far up in front of the Blessed Virgin’s 
altar where the light was not so strong and where she 
hoped she would be unnoticed. Presently, the tread of 
many feet announced that the guests and pupils were 
coming upstairs. The sweet strains of the organ filled 
the Chapel, and Benediction began. Over the lonely 
little soul of the child there stole a sweet peace, and 
she lingered in her shaded corner long after all had de- 
parted. She could not bear to go down to her noisy, 
chattering companions, so when Sister Pierre had ex- 
tinguished the last candle and disappeared into the 
sacristy, Mary followed her, hoping to be allowed to 
help put away the beautiful vestments. But she had 
no sooner delivered Dan’s message about the flowers, 
than Grace Thornton appeared in the doorway with’ 
“Mother Madeline wants you to come to the library to 
receive your prize from the Archbishop.” 

“Why child!” exclaimed Sister, “you don’t mean 
to say you did not get your prize?” 

it I forgot all about it, Sister,” replied Mary, wearily. 
“I had so many other things to think about. Do I really 


Commencement Day 


75 


have to go down ? I ’d rather wait and have Aunt Mary 
give it to me. It doesn’t matter so much now whether 
I get it or not. ” 

“You had better go, dear, since Mother sent for you. 
Besides, you will get a special blessing from the Arch- 
bishop. ’ ’ 

“I’ve just had our Lord’s blessing, but it will be good 
to get the Archbishop’s, too.” 

At the foot of the stairs, one of the Sisters was wait- 
ing to conduct her to the library, where the Archbishop 
and several priests were conversing with Mother Made- 
line and some of the Sisters. All present knew of the 
loss that had befallen the little girl, but they had been 
warned not to mention it to her. When Sister and 
Mary reached the door, the child shrank back at sight 
of the strange clergymen; but the Archbishop called to 
her and, rising from his chair, exclaimed, 1 1 So the little 
runaway is found. You are beginning early, my child, 
to shun the applause of the world. This is the first 
time I ever heard of a little girl trying to escape from 
receiving a well-earned prize.” 

‘ ‘ I forgot all about it, I truly did, your Grace, ’ ’ mur- 
mured Mary. 

“Well, never mind, child,” the kind-hearted man 
hastened to say, noticing how tired and pale she was. 
He looked at her searchingly, wondering how much of 
the coming cross she surmised, then placed in her hands 
a beautiful book, adding, “I wished to have the pleas- 
ure of presenting this to the little girl who contributed 
so much to our morning’s enjoyment.’'’ 

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much,” said the child, 
earnestly, kneeling for his blessing. 

The Archbishop made the sign of the cross above the 
little bowed figure. Then placing his right hand beside 
the other on the fair head, he continued, “May the All- 
wise and All-loving Father keep you always in His 
paternal embrace, and may the Mother of Mercy be 
truly a mother to you, and guard and protect you as 
her own well-beloved child forever.” 


76 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


“Amen,” responded the priests, and Mary wondered 
why the Archbishop coughed that queer little cough and 
turned so quickly to look out of the window. And she 
wondered, too, why some of the reverend gentlemen 
used their handkerchiefs so vigorously as she rose to her 
feet, and, with a polite little bow to them, turned in 
search of Aunt Mary. But that good lady, unable any 
longer to restrain her emotion, had escaped to the ad- 
joining room, and it was Sister Dominic who followed 
the child out into the corridor. 

“You never played better, dear,” she said. 

“I'm so glad it was all right. I was thinking all the 
time of you and Aunt Mary and and ” 

“Yes, yes, I know all about it,” whispered Sister, 
sympathetically, ‘ ‘ and I felt for you all the while . 9 ' 

Mary walked slowly down the hall, still hoping to 
meet Aunt Mary ; nor was she disappointed, for as she 
passed the open door of the next room, the Superior 
called to her. Mother Madeline, thinking she had her 
feelings again pretty well under control, began, “We 
are all proud of our little girl today.” 

“I'm glad you are pleased, Aunt Mary, but oh! I’m 
so terribly disappointed.” 

“ So am I, darling, ’ ’ replied Mother, kissing the white 
forehead. 

Mary was sure she saw tears on the dark lashes. 

“May I stay here a little while with you, Auntie?” 

“I am sorry, dear, but I must go back to the com- 
pany. All those great folks in there will go home as 
soon as they have had dinner, for they intend to take 
the two o’clock train. Then I shall be free, and we 
shall go off somewhere, all by ourselves. Will that do? 
Until then, run down to the little breakfast room where 
Wilhelmina and her mother are waiting for you. Sis- 
ter is going to serve a fine dinner there, for just you 
three. ' ' 

“I don't feel much like talking to visitors, or like 
eating anything, either.” 


Commencement Day 


77 


“But Mrs. Marvin is such an old friend that she 
ought not to seem like a visitor exactly. And after you 
sit quietly with her for a little while, you will be quite 
ready for some dinner. All this excitement is bad for 
little folks, I fear.” 

“It isn’t that — it’s my throat.” 

“Is it sore, dear?” asked Mother anxiously. 

“Not sore, but queer and lumpy. Kind of a choky 
feeling. ’ ’ 

“I see. Well now, I shall prescribe for that. A big 
easy chair, a good laugh at Wilhelmina’s nonsense, some 
fried chicken, etcetera, etcetera, a little nap, and then 
a stroll with your old auntie under the trees by the 
lake. Run away, now, and begin to take your medicine 
at once.” 

Mary slowly pursued her way towards the breakfast 
room, wondering, the while, what ailed everybody. She 
knew that Aunt Mary was just trying to be gay, and 
she certainly did look as if she had been crying. What 
had happened to make every one seem so sad ? She had 
always considered Commencement as one of the happiest 
days of the year, and though disappointment had spoiled 
this one for her, she could not see why others should 
not be as gay as usual. Reasoning thus, she had almost 
reached the breakfast room, when out danced Wil- 
helmina. 

“Oh, you’re coming at last. Just about time! My! 
what a bee-yew-tee- fid book! Look, mother, Mary won 
her class-prize.” 

Mrs. Marvin greeted her affectionately. 

“Come, sit here by me. You look so tired,” drawing 
the child down beside her on the lounge and smoothing 
back the fair hair. 

“I am tired — more than I thought,” admitted Mary, 
leaning contentedly against the friendly shoulder. “I 
was up pretty early and didn’t eat much breakfast, be- 
cause I was in such a hurry to get ready and watch 
for ” but here her voice broke, and closing her 


78 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


eyes, she sat for a long time in silence. Mrs. Marvin, 
who knew all, looked anxiously at the pale face. She 
was glad when Sister entered with the tray. 

“I fear you have two very hungry little people 
here, Sister. They have both confessed that they ate 
scarcely any breakfast. ’ ’ 

“Then they will surely do justice to this fine dinner ,’ 9 
replied Sister. “If there is anything I dislike, it is 
stylish people who sit up and nibble at things, instead 
of eating like proper Christians.” 

“You’ll pronounce us ready for martyrdom, Sister, 
for I’m simply avaricious,” cried Wilhelmina. 

“If you mean ‘voracious,’ say so, child,” laughed 
Mrs. Marvin. “Let us see what adjective my daughter 
can apply to you, Mary,” she continued, as they took 
their places at the table. 

“Indeed, mother, I can’t come anywhere near Mary 
when it’s a question of big words. What is the one 
you used last night?” turning to Mary. “Something 

like ‘per-am ,’ but I give it up. By the way, I 

couldn ’t find it in the dictionary, ’ ’ she added teasingly ; 
and so the meal progressed, Wilhelmina chattering like 
a magpie, Mary brightening visibly all the while. 

Finally, Mrs. Marvin declared that she and Wilhel- 
mina must go if they intended to catch the next train. 
How she longed to carry Mary off with them to their 
beautiful southern home, and there give her a good 
mothering. But it could not be — at least, not at pres- 
ent and with loving farewells, the mother and daugh- 

ter took their departure from Maryvale. 

“I think I’ll stay here and wait for Aunt Mary if 
you don’t mind, Sister.” 

“Yes, do, Mary. Lie down there on the lounge for a 
while, and I shall tell her you are here.” 

Half an hour later, when Mother Madeline stole in, 
she found her little niece sound asleep, and heaved a 
sigh of relief that the ordeal was for even a short time 
postponed. Any moment might bring a ’phone mes- 


Commencement Day 


79 


sage from her brother, and she had made up her mind 
to insist on his coming out to see the child. He could 
still plead a delay and manage somehow to keep her in 
ignorance of what all feared would prove to be facts. 
But the hours passed, bringing no message, for the 
Doctor had found it necessary to make a short trip to 
Long Island. 

On the train returning to New York, he sat wrapped 
in his own sad thoughts, until, looking about him at one 
of the stations, he caught sight of the head-lines on the 
paper in the hands of the man in the seat before him. 

“For Heaven’s sake, sir, give me that!” he cried. 
Snatching the paper from his astonished neighbor, he 
read, “MISSING BOAT, NUMBER 16 , FOUND; 
Picked up by French Sailing Vessel, Wednesday, P. 
M. ; Passengers Transferred to Steamer Ottria, Bound 
for New York.” Then followed a list of the rescued, 
and with a groan the Doctor dropped the paper — 
Elizabeth Selwyn ’s name was not among them! Again 
he seized the printed sheet, reading over and over the 
short list of names, hoping against hope that his eyes 
had deceived him. Finally, he thrust the paper into 
its owner’s hands, asking hoarsely, “Can you find 
Selwyn, or anything like it, there?” 

The man, thinking he was dealing with a maniac, 
hastened to read the list, but was obliged to confess 
that no such name, nor anything similar to it, appeared 
there. 

“My sister and her children should have been on 
that boat, sir, ’ ’ explained the Doctor, as he rose to leave 
the train. He hastened to the docks and learned that 
the Ottria was due Saturday afternoon. He would see 
the officer and the sailors who had manned the life- 
boat. Perhaps there was some mistake. 

There was another person more mystified than Doctor 
Carlton at the absence of Mrs. Selwyn ’s name from 
the list of those rescued from Number 16 . This was 
Bertha Ashmere. What had become of her sister-in- 


80 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


law and Beth? Who were the Mrs. Brnce and child 
whose names headed the list? Bruce , the name she her- 
self had assumed. Was there anyone of that name 
among the second-class passengers? Had such been 
the case, she was sure she would have noticed it on the 
sailing-list. There was a Mrs. Brooks and child — of 
that she was positive — so she concluded that Bruce was 
a misprint. But where was Elizabeth Selwyn? A long 
time she pondered over this problem, but finding no 
satisfactory solution, dismissed it from her mind as 
she might any other disagreeable topic. 


CHAPTER VII. 


NUMBER 16 . 

And where was Elizabeth Selwyn? 

We left her sleeping from sheer exhaustion on the 
arm of Mrs. O’Malley, who finally succeeded in taking 
Beth from her. 

At the first streak of dawn, the officer in charge of 
the boat sprang to his feet and with his glass swept the 
surrounding waters. Muttering something about the 
mists, he resumed his seat, but the sailors and many of 
the passengers knew that the rays of the rising sun 
would reveal to them what he dreaded they should 
know. Gradually the mists lifted, curling away like 
wreaths of thin smoke, and around them on all sides, 
as far as eye could see, stretched that vast expanse of 
blue, rippling water, with not a speck to mar its beauty. 
Again the officer used his glass, and again resumed his 
seat. No word was spoken. Silence, silence, silence, 
broken only by the occasional ripple of the water against 
the boat. 

Suddenly the boy, who during the night had crept 
from beneath the ropes which concealed him and was 
now leaning over the bow of the boat, uttered an excla- 
mation of surprise and motioned to the sailor nearest 
him. The latter, also, leaned over the bow, then re- 
turned to his place saying quietly, “We have made 
good speed, over night. Couldn’t have done better if 
we’d pulled for it.” 

“What do you mean?” came from all around him. 

“I mean that this boat has Somehow been caught 
in a current, which has carried us far from the scene 
of the wreck. No wonder we saw and heard nothing 
of the rescue steamers. We would have seen their 
lights, I suppose, except for the fog. Like as not, 

81 


82 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


one of them is still there looking for us. All that 
puzzles me is that the other boats escaped this cur- 
rent. ’ 9 

“I guess there are many such streams in the ocean,” 
observed another sailor, “but they are too small to 
interfere with the big ships, though powerful enough 
with a peanut shell like this, as we’ve found to our 
cost. ’ ’ 

“It is better than standing still, at any rate,” said 
one of the passengers. “We shall be carried some- 
where and may sight a steamer before night.” 

But the officer shook his head gloomily. 

The passengers wondered that the rapid progress of 
the boat had not been noticed, but they soon realized 
that even in daylight, with nothing stationary by which 
to gauge distance, they could perceive no forward mo- 
tion. It was the prow of the boat cutting through the 
water, that attracted the boy’s attention. 

Silence fell again on the little group. The sailors 
kept a sharp lookout, while the officer, despite his fore- 
bodings, never lowered his glass. 

All this time Mrs. Selwyn had slept, unconscious 
of the discovery just made. Presently she woke, sprang 
to her feet, and eagerly scanned the sea on all sides. 
Then with the piercing cry, “My little lost child!” 
she fell senseless in the bottom of the boat. 

Saturday came at last, and Doctor Carlton, unable 
to again bear the delay attendant on the landing of 
a great steamer, took the train to Sandy Hook, and 
going out from that point with the pilot, boarded the 
Ottria early in the afternoon. From the officer and 
the sailors of Number 16, he learned all that they knew 
of the wreck; but neither they, nor any of the passen- 
gers whom he carefully interrogated, had so much as 
heard the name Selwyn. They told him of the only 
one of the ladies in Number 16 who had a child with 
her,— a haggard, grey-haired woman, apparently mid- 


Number Sixteen 


83 


dle-aged, accompanied by an Irish woman, probably 
the nurse, who had distinctly given Bruce as the lady’s 
name, and 0 ’ Malley as her own. The lady seemed much 
affected by the horror of that terrible night, and showed 
great anxiety about the child, a frail little thing of 
scarcely two years, who was very ill, and whom the 
mother had evidently given up as lost. When the 
sailing-vessel picked them up, late Wednesday after- 
noon, the stewardess took Mrs. Bruce and the child 
to her own apartments, and Mrs. O’Malley went with 
them. The following day, when the Ottria was sighted, 
the doctor declared that Mrs. Bruce was in no condi- 
tion to be moved and insisted that she should be taken 
to the hospital at Bordeaux, which port was the desti- 
nation of the sailing vessel. Mrs. O’Malley and a little 
boy, also, remained on the French vessel. 

“But sir,” exclaimed the Doctor, turning to the offi- 
cer, “how do you account for the fact that my sister, 
a first-cabin passenger, was lost, while second and third- 
class passengers, and even the crew escaped in safety. 
My sister’s servant was assured by one of the officers 
that no first-cabin passengers remained on the vessel 
before she, poor, faithful old soul, could be persuaded 
to enter a life-boat, and she had then just come from 
my sister’s stateroom which she had found empty.” 

“That officer certainly believed he was telling the 
truth, sir, for the captain had ascertained that all the 
first-class staterooms were vacated before the second- 
class passengers were allowed in the boats. The only 
way I can account for it is this. The vessel was struck 
by a submerged ice-field, and, though badly damaged, 
could have floated for hours in that condition. To 
allay the fears of the people, they were told that there 
was no immediate danger. In all probability your 
sister heard this and returned to her stateroom for 
valuables or more wraps after the captain had received 
the report that all the passengers had escaped to the 
deck. While she was there, the vessel was again struck, 
the damage proving so great that she sank in a few 


84 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


minutes. Anyone burdened, as you say your sister was, 
with two small children, would have found escape im- 
possible. Certain it is, that she did not enter a life- 
boat; for though some confusion prevailed, owing to 
the terror of many of the passengers, the filling and 
lowering of the boats was conducted in an orderly man- 
ner, and there were no accidents. Indeed, I was sure, 
until I met you, that Captain Crosby and the first mate 
were the only victims.' ' 

The Doctor turned sadly away. The officer's con- 
clusion seemed to be the only reasonable one that could 
be drawn, though in his heart the Doctor felt that it 
was most unlike Elizabeth to return to the stateroom 
after having once made her escape. But the facts of 
the case remained, and her disappearance, he mused, 
was only one more of the many secrets to be disclosed 
“when the sea gives up its dead." 

And he must tell Mary! 

The thought was overwhelming. He shrank from it 
as he had never in his life shrunk from anything. He 
could not — he would not tell her! He would take pas- 
sage on one of the ships in the bay and flee to the ends 
of the earth, — anywhere — anything, rather than be the 
bearer of such news to the little one he so tenderly 
loved. Suddenly, he saw the words as clearly as on the 
day when he read them in a tear-stained, black-bordered 
letter, — “You will be a father to my fatherless little 
girl," — and with them came the memory of a promise 
made and, until now, faithfully kept. Would Robert 
Selwyn forsake his child in this her hour of greatest 
need? The Doctor looked at his watch. It was after 
four o'clock; the vessel was nearing the dock. Quickly 
he made his plans. He would spend that evening and 
part of the next day in seeing such of the first-class 
passengers as resided in New York, hoping to obtain 
from them some information of his sister and the chil- 
dren that might prove of consolation to Mary after the 
first shock was over. The following afternoon he would 
go out to the Convent. 


Number Sixteen 


85 


As soon as the gang-plank was placed, he hastened 
from the ship, pushing his way through the crowds on 
the dock, where he recognized several faces aglow with 
happiness, which three days before had looked as hope- 
less as his own. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HEARTS BOWED DOWN. 

Ma-ry — Sel-wyn ’s — want — ed — in — the — par-lor ! 

Ma-a-a-ry — Sel-l-l-lwyn ’s — want — ed — in — the — par — ar- 
ar — lor — r — r!” sang little Helen Harden, as she ran 
swiftly down the walk. She had been standing near 
the door-way talking to Sister Austin when Mother 
Madeline came quickly from the house and said to Sis- 
ter in a low tone, “Mary’s uncle is here and — ” but 
Helen waited to hear no more. 

Mary, far down on the grounds trying to become in- 
terested in a story, heard the shrill call, sprang to her 
feet, and like an arrow flew towards the house entering 
it through a door-way at the end of the west wing. 
Helen, seeing that her message had been received, 
danced back to the two Sisters who still stood in earnest 
conversation. 

“I told her,” she cried. 

“Told whom?” asked Sister Austin. 

“Told Mary to go to the parlor, and I never saw her 
run so fast in all my life. ’ ’ 

“Which way did she go? Quick, child, so I can stop 
her!” exclaimed Mother Madeline. 

“In the end door through the recreation room,” re- 
plied Helen, frightened now, and feeling that she had 
made some big mistake. 

Mother hastened in to the long corridor, hoping to 
meet Mary there ; for the Doctor had begged her to say 
something to the little girl to prepare her for the com- 
ing blow. But she was too late; Mary, having sped 
through this corridor some moments before, had already 
turned down the main one leading to the parlors. Her 
uncle heard her quick light step as she approached the 
open door. 


86 


Hearts Bowed Down 


87 


‘‘She knows nothing yet,” he groaned, dropping his 
head in his hands. Suddenly the steps ceased. He 
knew she had stopped abruptly at the door, but he could 
not look up. With his head still bowed on his left hand, 
he stretched out his right towards her. She ran to him 
with the piteous cry, “0, Uncle! don't look like that! 
Say it isn't true, Uncle! Oh, say it isn’t true. You 
looked like that when father died. Don't Uncle, don’t 
look like that!” and with a moan she slipped to her 
knees beside him and clung to his arm, beseeching him 
over and over again, “Say it isn't true Uncle; dear, 
dear Uncle, say it isn't true!” 

Tenderly he lifted her to his knee and held her close, 
whispering in a voice choked with emotion, “I wish I 
could, darling, oh, how I wish I could ! ’ ' and the strong 
man's tears fell in streams on the little golden head on 
his shoulder. 

Thus Mother Madeline found them, noting with a 
pang the many white hairs among what had, a week 
ago, been a glossy brown. She drew up a chair and sat 
silently wiping away her own tears. Suddenly Mary 
sat upright exclaiming, “I don't believe it, I can't, oh, 
I can't ! you’ll say it isn't true, Aunt Mary, won’t you?” 
but in that loved face she saw nothing to give the 
slightest hope, and sobbing piteously, she again hid her 
face on the Doctor's shoulder. The poor man looked 
appealingly at his sister, but she shook her head, mak- 
ing a sign to him that it was better to let the child 
relieve her overcharged little heart as she would. In 
low tones she spoke to her brother about the events of 
the past week, and presently even Mary stifled her sobs 
to listen to the whole story of the wreck. It was only 
too clear that her uncle had done all that mortal power 
could do to obtain every particle of information that 
would prove beyond doubt the loss of their loved ones. 
Telegrams and cablegrams without number had been 
sent; steamship companies had been interviewed; pas- 
sengers of the ill-fated vessel had been interrogated. 
There was only one conclusion to it all — Elizabeth Sel- 


88 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


wyn had never left the Helena , but had, with her little 
ones, gone down when the steamer sank. 

“Father gone, and mother gone, and the darling 
babies, and I ’m left — left all alone — oh, no, no ! ’ ’ she 
cried hastily, catching sight of the expression of pain 
that swept over the Doctor ’s countenance, ‘ ‘ I don ’t mean 
that^not that!” and she threw her arms about his neck, 
passionately kissing the worn, haggard face. “I can 
never be that while I have you and dear, dear Aunt 
Mary. ’ 9 

“I understand perfectly, darling,” he replied, lov- 
ingly returning her caresses, “and I’m glad you realize 
how much we do love you even though we can never 
take the place of those you have lost.” Stroking the 
soft hair from the hot little forehead, he wiped away 
the tears that forced themselves from under the closed 
lids. 

The three sat, silently occupied with their own sad 
thoughts. Mother Madeline, who from the first had en- 
tertained no hope, was glad that at last the ordeal was 
over. Presently Mary, perfectly quiet now, slipped 
from her uncle’s embrace, announcing that she thought 
she would go away for a little while. The Doctor looked 
anxiously at Mother Madeline, but she encouraged the 
child, saying, “Yes, dear, go out under the trees where 
it is cool, if you like,” and Mary, embracing them 
affectionately, went slowly from the room. But it was 
not to the lawn nor the garden that she betook herself. 
She longed to be where she had so often found help 
and comfort, and, avoiding the corridors where she 
would be apt to meet anyone, she stole up to pour out 
her little heart to “The Father of the fatherless.” 

The Doctor did not remain long with his sister, but 
promising to return the next day, took the five-thirty 
train to the city. After his departure, Mother Made- 
line repaired immediately to the yard in search of Mary. 
Up and down the walks she went, in and out among the 
trees and shrubbery, visiting all the little girl’s favorite 


Hearts Bowed Down 


89 


haunts; but no trace of the child could she find. Then, 
as a matter of importance required her presence in- 
doors, she was obliged to let Sister Austin continue the 
search. After an hour’s time, the Superior was once 
more free, and somewhat surprised that Mary had not 
yet been brought to her, she was about to go again in 
quest of the child when Sister Austin, looking decidedly 
anxious, appeared in the doorway. 

“We have searched every nook and corner of the 
house and grounds, Mother, and with the exception of 
the book she was reading when she received the message 
to go to the parlor, there is not a trace of her.” 

“Did you look in the Chapel, Sister?” 

“I went there first.” 

The older nun thought for a moment. “Perhaps Dan 
could enlighten us as to her whereabouts,” she sug- 
gested. 

“I have already seen him, Mother, and he knows 
nothing. He has gone to explore the borders of the 
lake, fearing lest she may have fallen in ; but how could 
she get near the water ? ’ ’ for, as a necessary precaution, 
a high iron fence had been placed some feet from its 
edge, making it impossible for anyone to approach it 
except through a gate of which only the Superior and 
the old gardener had keys. “If it were Wilhelmina 
Marvin, now, I should say drag the lake by all means, 
but ” 

“You don’t mean to tell me, Sister, that Wilhelmina 
could climb that fence!” 

“She might not actually climb it, Mother, but she 
would find a means of getting over it if she took the 
notion. I have seen that child swinging from limb to 
limb of the tallest tree on the place in order to escape 
a reprimand; and when, with my heart in my mouth, I 
finally succeeded in getting her to come down, I was 
so thankful, that I could not give her either of the 
scoldings she so richly deserved. So much for a child 
with eight brothers!” 


90 


Uncle Prank's Mary 


“I wonder, Sister, if it can be possible that Mary 
waited near the gate and persuaded my brother to take 
her with him. Still, in that case, he would certainly 
have phoned as soon as he reached home. I think I 
shall call him up, anyway." 

The Doctor was in his office and answered promptly. 
“Did you see Mary again before you left, Frank?" 

“Why no. I looked about as I went down the drive, 
but could not catch even a glimpse of her. What is 
the trouble?" 

“She has hidden away somewhere so that we can’t 
find her." 

“That’s bad. She should not be left so much alone. 
Where could she possibly be?" 

“That is what we cannot imagine. Just a moment — 
here she is now. It is all right, Frank, good-night." 

“I’m so sorry, Auntie. Sister Austin just told me 
how worried you have been." 

‘ ‘ I was getting pretty anxious, dear, and thought per- 
haps Uncle Frank had kidnapped you. But I see you 
have been in good company," said Mother, smiling at 
Sister Pierre who had entered the room with the child. 

“No, Mother, she has not been in the sacristy. I 
found her in a much better place. Going to our Lady’s 
altar to replenish the little lamp, I almost walked on 
her, sound asleep on the step. But she will tell you all 
about it herself. I am going down to get her a glass 
of milk," said Sister, leaving the room. 

“You need something more than milk, my dear child. 
Come down with me and we shall find some supper," 
urged Mother Madeline. 

“I couldn’t eat anything now, Auntie, truly. Sister 
Pierre wanted to get me some supper, but I told her 
only the milk. Just something cold, please. I feel so 
hot," replied the little girl, brushing back the curls 
from her forehead. 

Mother led her to a chair and sat down beside her. 


Hearts Bowed Down 


91 


‘ 1 So you have been all this time with our Lord, dearie. 
I thought they would find you there, but Sister Austin 
herself told me she looked, and you were nowhere to be 
seen. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I was there all the time. When I first went 
into the Chapel, no one was there ; so I knelt in the front 
pew a little while; but when the Sisters began to come 
in, I went over to the side in front of our Blessed 
Mother’s statue and knelt behind that part of the con- 
fessional where it sticks out a little. I didn’t feel like 
talking and thought nobody would notice me there. 
Then when the Angelus rang, and all the Sisters went 
to supper, and the Chapel began to get kind of dark, 
I felt so lonesome that I went inside the altar railing 
as close to the statue as I could and I must have fallen 
asleep,” she concluded, wearily. “But I’m sorry I 
worried you,” she went on hastily. “Somehow I just 
didn’t think.” 

“Never mind, darling, it is all right. Come, now, 
hadn’t you better go to bed?” asked Mother Madeline 
noticing how flushed and feverish the child was. ‘ ‘ Here 
is Sister with your milk. ’ ’ 

“And I just fixed a little bit of an egg, a scrap of 
toast, and a wee taste of jelly to go with it; and old 
Sister Wilfred would put some of her famous cookies 
on the tray, so don’t blame me,” said Sister Pierre, 
setting the tray on a table which Mother drew over near 
the child. 

“Thank you so much, Sister, but really I’m not a 
bit hungry— just hot,” declared Mary, lifting the big 
glass of milk in both hands and holding it against her 
burning cheek. “My, that feels good!” 

“I warrant it tastes better, dear,” and Sister Pierre 
busied herself fixing and coaxing till she had succeeded 
in getting the child to eat a few bites. 

“You’re all so good,” murmured the little girl, tears 
once more welling up in the big dark eyes, “but if you 
don’t mind, I think I’d better go to bed now.” 


92 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


“Yes,” said Mother Madeline, “that will be the wis- 
est thing to do,” and rising, she accompanied her niece 
to the pretty bedroom where she assisted her to get 
ready for the night. Then she sat by the bedside bath- 
ing the hot little head. J ^ ♦ • ? * • 

“Hadn't you better sleep late in the morning ’'dear?” 

“It’s Monday, Aunt Mary. The Holy Souls, you 
know, and I haven’t heard Mass once for ” 

“Of course, dear, you will want to be up for Mass. 
It was stupid of me to forget,” Mother hastened to say. 

“If I’m tired I can come back here after breakfast 
and stay in bed all day if you want me to.” 

“That depends on how you feel.” 

4 ‘ 0 Auntie, if I had only made my First Communion ! ’ ’ 

“That reminds me of something the Archbishop said 
Thursday. He asked your age, and told me to put you 
in the First Communion class next year. That will be 
a whole year before the regular time.” 

“Isn’t he good!” sighed Mary. “Isn’t he good! I 
see now why he said that on Commencement Day, about 
our Blessed Mother being truly a mother to me. I’ve 
always belonged to her, but I’ll be hers more than ever 
now, won’t I?” 

“You will, indeed, dear, and you must place yourself 
in her care with perfect confidence that she loves you 
and will watch over you with a true mother’s tender- 
ness. ’ ’ 

“I did do that this afternoon, Auntie. Oh, I wish I 
was one of Mr. Daniel’s beautiful lilies, so I could be 
always before her altar.” 

“You can be something better than that. You can be 
our Lady’s little lily. Dan’s lovely flowers soon fade 
and die, but, as the days go by, you can increase in love- 
liness by the practice of those virtues so dear to our 
Blessed Mother’s heart — purity, humility, obedience, 
charity. She was the ‘Lily of Israel,’ and you shall be 
her own little ‘Lily of Maryvale’.” 


Hearts Bowed Down 


93 


“You do think of such nice things, Auntie.” 

The religious sat silent, hoping that the child would 
soon go to sleep ; but that blessing seemed far from the 
tearful eyes, which, even in the darkness, Mother Made- 
line could see were still wide open. 

“Auntie, isn’t it awfully, awfully cold down in deep, 
deep water?” 

“Darling, they can’t feel it. Think how happy they 
are with our dear Lord, and our Blessed Mother, and 
your father, and little brothers. ’ ’ The aunt was thankful 
for the darkness that hid her own tears from the child. 

“I’ll try to, Aunt Mary. And won’t you please go to 
bed, too? I’m afraid I can’t sleep right away, but I’ll 
try very hard, only I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t 
staying up for me.” 

“Very well,” said Mother, kissing the little upturned 
face. “I shall go now to Say night prayers with the Sis- 
ters, then I shall come back, and if you do not need me, 
I shall go to bed, too. ’ ’ 

Half an hour later she returned and knelt by the little 
bed to implore the blessing of God on the sleeping child. 


CHAPTER IX. 


VACATION. 

‘‘Something must be done, Frank. The child needs a 
change. She does not complain and is so loving and 
grateful for the least kindness; but she never joins in 
the games of the few little ones who are spending the 
vacation here, and she is becoming so pale and wan that 
my heart aches for her.” Thus spoke Mother Madeline 
one afternoon early in July. 

“I have spoken to her several times about a trip of 
some kind, but she always pleads to remain here this 
summer. I am afraid it will not benefit her to take her 
away against her will, ’ ’ replied the Doctor. 

“Leave that part of it to me,” said his sister. “Ar- 
range your business so you can go away for a month, at 
least, and Mary will be perfectly willing to accompany 
you. Of that I am sure. You need a trip as much as 
she does.” 

“I can be ready to go tomorrow, but I doubt very 
much that you will be able to accomplish your under- 
taking. ’ ’ 

“Wait and see,” said Mother. 

Going to the door, she asked one of the Sisters, who 
was passing, to send Mary to the parlor. The child came 
without delay and greeted her uncle quietly, though it 
was evident that she was glad of the unexpected visit. 

“We have just been planning a little trip for you and 
Uncle,” began Mother Madeline. 

“0 Auntie, please, I’d so much rather stay here this 
summer. ’ ’ 

The Doctor cast a look of triumph over the child’s 
head at his sister. However, she was not to be so easily 
vanquished, and, confident of victory, continued, “But, 

94 


Vacation 


95 


Mary, Uncle really needs a vacation, and he will not 
think of going away unless you accompany him.” 

Then of course I T1 go. It was selfish of me to refuse 
all those times Uncle asked me, hut I thought he just 
wanted to go for my sake.” 

It was Mother’s turn to look jubilant, and the Doctor 
was forced to smile at the strategy she had used to ac- 
complish her end. 

1 ‘Now,” said he, 1 ‘the question is, where shall we go? 
How about a long steamer trip up the Atlantic to some 
pleasant place in Canada?” 

“Oh, please no, Uncle Frank, I couldn’t bear that,” 
answered the child in a low, strained tone. 

The Doctor bit his lip in vexation at his own stupidity. 
Had not Mother Madeline told him that the child never 
went near the little lake on the grounds, where she had 
formerly spent many happy hours? In vain he tried 
to think of something to say, but Mary herself came to 
the rescue. Smiling up at him bravely through the tears 
she was striving to repress, she said, “But that is selfish 
too ; so if it’s best for you we will go there.” 

“Bless you, child,” exclaimed the Doctor, his own 

eyes getting misty, “I am only ” but a warning 

“ahem” from his sister caused him to catch himself in 
time. “I am only looking for a place where I can get a 
little rest, and some nice quiet spot in the mountains 
would suit me best.” 

“Oh, yes!” cried Mary clapping her hands, thorough- 
ly delighted that she now had a real chance of doing 
something for the one she loved so much. 

Her uncle and aunt thought it was the prospect of a 
change that had worked this wonderful transformation 
in the little girl hitherto so listless and sad ; but a letter 
from the Doctor to his sister, a few weeks later, proved 
that such was not the case. 

“I think I know just the thing,” he went on. “Up in 
the state, a few hours ride from here, lives an elderly 
farmer. He has a fine old-fashioned house of his own, 


96 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


and some distance from it he has built a number of log- 
cabins which he rents out to summer boarders. They 
can do their own cooking, or take their meals at the 
farm house, as they prefer.” 

“0 Uncle, let’s do our own. I can make coffee and 
biscuits and butter-scotch and fudge, and I s’pose you 
can cook a few things, so we’ll get along in fine style.” 

* ‘ The coffee and biscuits will do very well, but I draw 
the line at butter-scotch and fudge as steady diet. I 
intend to take my gun along to see if I have forgotten 
how to use it, and if I haven’t, we shall live on more 
substantial fare than your menu allows.” 

“But if you shoot chickens and things ” 

“ Shoot chickens!” The Doctor threw back his head 
and laughed for the first time in weeks. “Have you 
never seen Patrick kill chickens here?” 

“No, but I’ve seen the Sisters fixing them in the 
kitchen and I know I shouldn’t like that,” answered 
Mary, turning up her nose. 

“Well, when I ‘shoot’ chickens, I shall also take care 
of the rest.” 

‘ ‘ I think you had better take your meals at the farm- 
house like sensible people. You will be coming back here 
looking like two scare-crows without a pick on your 
bones. Mary, how are you for clothes? Uncle wishes 
to start tomorrow, so you had better go ask Sister Aus- 
tin if you can be ready.” 

“I guess dark things will be best, Auntie, don’t you 
think? All those gingham dresses are clean, and I 
might take one white one to wear to Church, Sundays, 
and a blue woolen one in case it should turn cold.” 

“Yes,” interrupted the Doctor, “and ask Sister to 
put in your jacket and heavy shoes. Then come back 
and report.” 

“As if I’d let you go without saying ‘good-by’ and 
finding out more about our preparatory enactments,” 
said Mary. 

“Our what!” 


Vacation 


97 


“Preparatory enactments . Now Uncle, I’m sure that’s 
right. ’ ’ 

“Well, if this is what I am to he treated to, along 
with butter-scotch and fudge, I’d much prefer to stay 
at home. ,, 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, no ! I ’ll talk A B C ’s if you like and never 
mention the word ‘candy’.” She skipped away to ob- 
tain from Sister Austin the desired information. 

The Doctor heaved a sigh of relief. “It takes your- 
self, Mary, to get around the child. I should never have 
thought of that scheme in a thousand years. ’ ’ 

“Because you do not realize how much she thinks of 
you. She is very unselfish for one so young, and all you 
need do in future is to say that you wish thus and so, 
and you will see that her likes and dislikes will entirely 
disappear.” 

‘ ‘ It seems unkind to take advantage of the little thing, 
but it is for her own good. I shall have to keep away 
from water, though. Here she is. Well, what news?” 

‘ ‘ Everything is ready to put in a suit-case. Now, what 
time do we start tomorrow ? ’ ’ 

“I shall leave the city on that nine-thirty train, and 
if Auntie will let old Dan escort you to the little station 
here, I shall meet you and take you aboard. That is a 
through train, and by taking it, we shall be saved a 
long delay farther on.” 

Mary looked to Mother Madeline for her approval. 

“Certainly, dear, you may see Dan tonight and make 
all necessary arrangements. Maybe he would ride you 
down to the station in his wheel-barrow,” she added with 
a twinkle in her eyes. 

“0 Auntie, as if I would! That’s all well enough 
around the garden, but out on the road! And I do wish 
you and Uncle would please call him Mr. Daniel! He 
always says Miss Mary to me and treats me with the 
greatest interference ” 

“He does, does he,” laughed the Doctor. “No won- 
der, then, that he can afford to call you Miss Mary.” 


98 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


The little girl knew she had made another blunder 
and privately resolved to consult the “big die” after 
Uncle took his departure. 

“I think I had better go look after my own wardrobe. 
I never know what I possess with that rascal, Tom, on 
the premises. ‘Massa’s niggah, massa’s clothes,’ appears 
to be his motto, for he thinks anything I have worn two 
or three times is quite old enough to be handed down to 
him. Come, walk with me to the gates, Mary,” he said, 
rising and giving his hand to his sister, who stood on 
the porch and watched him go down the drive with the 
little white clad, golden-haired child, like his guardian 
angel, beside him. 

A few weeks later, Mother Madeline received from 
him the following letter : 

July 27, 1907. 

My dear Mary: 

Three weeks have slipped away since we two entered 
into conspiracy, and I must say it has succeeded in one 
way beyond my most sanguine expectations. I am an 
object of the greatest solicitude — in fact, you would 
think me in the last stages were you to see the care and 
attention showered on me by our small niece. I was 
obliged to let some of the guests into the secret, or I 
think they would have been scandalized at a big six- 
footer like me accepting the lavish ministrations of my 
little nurse. We have many a laugh in private over my 
supposed need of rest and quiet. Not that I did not 
need a little of both, but nothing to equal that which 
Mary judges is absolutely indispensable to my complete 
recovery — from what I never had. In spite of my warn- 
ing, two or three gentlemen attempted one day to tease 
me at the table by remarking my paleness and lack of 
appetite. (I look like a boiled lobster and eat like a 
plow-man.) Mary bristled up, but bit her lip and said 
nothing. Later on, when these same gentlemen were 
enjoying their after-dinner smoke, and Mary thought I 


Vacation 


99 


had gone to the cabin for my prescribed nap, I saw her 
coming towards them over the grass, and wondered what 
was up. 

“If you please, sirs, I should like to speak to you a 
moment. I do not want to hurt your feelings and you 
must pardon what I am going to say; but my uncle is 
here for his health and I am afraid those remarks you 
made at the table were very injudiciary. ,, (Prejudicial, 
she meant.) “Sick folks shouldn’t be told they look 
pale and have no appetite, you know. As the only one 
Uncle has to take care of him, I thought it my duty to 
speak to you.” There was a little quaver in her voice 
as her courage began to ebb. 

The men made profound apologies, shaking hands most 
gallantly with her, and she went off towards the cabin 
with quite an air, though I know her poor little heart 
was thumping like a hammer. You should have seen 
me making a short cut to that cabin so as to get there 
ahead of her, and when she arrived I was snoring lustily. 
She tiptoed around until she found a big palm-leaf fan ; 
then settled herself in a rocker near my bed to keep the 
flies away while I slept. This, by the way, is the regular 
program. I felt like a big hypocrite, but what could I 
do ? How I ever kept my face straight is a mystery to 
me. But I lay there like a sleeping cherub, and she 
fanned and fanned until she fell asleep herself. The 
fan dropped from her hand so I picked it up, using it 
for her benefit until I saw signs of her waking, when I 
laid it on the floor and stretched out again for fear she 
would catch me. If you could have seen the guilty look 
on her face when she realized that she had been asleep. 

Now, my dear sister, this sort of thing cannot go on. 
The child is eaten up with anxiety and is wearing her- 
self out for me. She has not gained an ounce. There- 
fore, I have taken it on myself to accept Phil Marvin’s 
invitation for her. He is Wilhelmina’s father, you 
know, and from Mary’s accounts of that young lady’s 
pranks and subsequent visits to your office, I judge you 
have more than a passing acquaintance with her. Phil 


100 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


will be in New York next week and says that his wife 
has absolutely forbidden him to return home without 
Mary. For the sake of peace in the family, if nothing 
else, she will have to go. But all joking aside, I think 
it will be the very best thing for the child. There are 
no young folks here, nothing to divert her mind from 
the sad thoughts which are bound to come to all of us. 
I shall be glad on that account when school reopens. If 
you will see that her trunk is packed and sent in to the 
office, I will attend to the rest. If I remember rightly, 
those Southerners are great people for white gowns, fans, 
and such things; so get whatever she needs. Write her 
a few lines and send them to the office, because there 
will not be time between trains to go out to see you. We 
cannot get away from here before Wednesday morning, 
and Phil wishes to leave for home that afternoon. 

I know you will feel as I do about this, and if there 
is not time to get her furbelows together, we can send 
them later. 

Your devoted 

Brother. 

The following Tuesday afternoon when the Doctor 
awoke from his siesta, he again found his little nurse 
asleep at her post. As he lay watching her, congratulat- 
ing himself on the step he had taken, he wondered how 
best to break the news. He finally decided to resort 
once more to strategy, feeling sure that therein lay his 
surest hope of success. So when Mary showed signs of 
awaking, he again closed his eyes, but not so tightly 
that he could not watch her every movement. Thinking 
him still asleep, she slipped out of the big chair and 
tiptoed into the next room, whence she soon returned 
carrying a pitcher and a glass. By this time her uncle 
pretended to have waked, and was seated in the chair 
yawning prodigiously. 

“Did you have a good sleep, Uncle?” 

“Splendid! Did you?” 

The child looked suspiciously at him, wondering how 


Vacation 


101 


much he knew of the real state of affairs, but the Doctor 
appeared so perfectly innocent that she merely remarked, 
as she poured out the milk, “Nurses aren’t supposed to 
nap while their patients are resting.” 

“Get another glass and drink some of that yourself. 
Is there any left in the pitcher?” 

“Oh, yes, there’s plenty for me,” replied Mary, taking 
up the pitcher and again disappearing into the next 
room. When she returned her uncle asked, “Well, 
where is the milk now ? ’ ’ 

“I drank it in there,” nodding her head in the direc- 
tion of the little kitchen. 

“Now, miss, no more nonsense. Bring me that glass,” 
he insisted, pausing with his own upheld before him ; for 
he suspected that the little girl had filled his very large 
tumbler to the brim and saved little or none for herself. 

“I had enough for now, Uncle, and later on I’ll run up 
to the dairy and get more. Truly, I will.” 

“Bring me that glass.” 

Mary reluctantly made another trip to the kitchen, 
returning with a small tumbler which her uncle took 
and critically surveyed. 

“I intended to wash it when I did yours,” she has- 
tened to explain, thinking that his look of disapproval 
was directed to the rim of milk still visible on the lower 
third of the glass. 

‘ ‘ That is not what I am looking at, ’ ’ said the Doctor, 
proceeding to pour the milk from his glass into hers, 
while Mary looked on in dismay. “Now then, here’s 
to your health,” he added “and be it understood that 
I, Doctor Francis P. Carlton, do here and now pro- 
nounce myself a well man, no longer requiring the ser- 
vices of the best little nurse in the world.” 

“You dear old goose, you frightened me. I didn’t 
know what was coming. But you do look fine and I am 
very proud of my patient, though I’m afraid I’ll miss 
having someone to boss.” 


102 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“I never felt better in my life, and I must say I 
never was so well taken care of and coddled since I 
had the measles, ages and ages ago. But my good times 
are over until next summer. Can you be ready to start 
for New York in the morning?” 

4 ‘Tonight, if you like,” she replied. 

He smiled at her eagerness. 

“Tomorrow will be time enough. By the way, I have 
accepted an invitation for you to visit Wilhelmina for 
a few weeks. You will like that, won’t you?” 

“I’d much rather go back to Mary vale, Uncle,” she 
answered in a low tone. 

“But, dear, they are so anxious to have you that Mr. 
Marvin has waited in New York to meet us there to- 
morrow and take you on with him. Mrs. Marvin told 
him not to dare return without you.” 

“They are just lovely, Uncle, but I’d rather not go 
unless you wish it. ’ ’ 

“I do not want to force you, dear, but I do wish it 
very much. It is the first favor Phil Marvin has asked 
of me since we were together in college, and I hate to 
refuse him. He was like an elder brother to me then.” 

Mary sat silent for a few moments. Then came the 
thought, “Another chance to do something for him.” 

“ I ’ll go with Mr. Marvin tomorrow, Uncle ; but what 
about my clothes?” 

“I have written to Aunt Mary to attend to all that. 
You see, I took it all so much for granted that you 
would be delighted to see Wilhelmina again, that I said 
nothing to you about it. Suppose we get some of our 
traps together now. The train leaves early in the morn- 
ing, and if we wait until tonight to do our packing, the 
light will attract no end of those pesky mosquitoes and 
beetles to disturb our slumbers.” 

So, “for Uncle’s sake,” the child tried to be gay, and 
the good man again congratulated himself on the results 
of his diplomacy, though underlying all was a feeling of 
shame at having once more taken advantage of her af- 


Vacation 


103 


fection for him. Only the thought that he was acting 
for her good kept him from telling her she was free to 
return to Maryvale. When finally the suitcases were 
packed, he turned to her saying, 4 ‘ How would you enjoy 
a stroll before supper ?” 

4 ‘ Just as you wish, Uncle.’ * 

“But this time it must be as you wish. It seems to 
me you have very few wishes for a little girl.” 

“I had a big one about that milk this afternoon, but 
it wasn’t any use.” 

“It takes a rogue to catch a rogue, doesn’t it?” 
laughed the Doctor. 

“By the way, Uncle, I need — let me see, — four times 

seven, times dear me, I forget how much she charged 

a day,” said Mary, puckering her forehead. 

“What is it all about?” queried her uncle. 

“Sick folks shouldn’t ask questions of the nurse.” 

“But I wasn’t really what you could call sick.” 

“Well, no,” said the child, thoughtfully, “I s’pose 
you were a convolution.” 

“Not a bit of it!” exclaimed the Doctor. “And I 
want you to know, my dear, that an operation for a 
dislocated jaw-bone is rarely a success, and is one from 
which the patient is a long time convoluting.” 

“Dislocated jaw-bone. My, that sounds fine! I must 
remember that and try it on Wilhelmina.” 

“H’m! going to turn pugilist are you?” 

“Now, Uncle, you know what I mean, and if you will 
please give me five dollars of my very own money, I’ll 
go pay a bill I owe. There will be some change.” 

“Where in this forsaken hole did you find an oppor- 
tunity to run up a bill of five dollars ? ’ ’ 

“0 Uncle, you are so inquisitory. I arranged with 
Mrs. Ryder for two quarts of the very best milk for you, 
but its my treat, and that is why I want my own money 
to pay for it.” 


104 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Yon are a bigger fox than I thought you were. 
But, dearie, I haven’t a penny of yours with me. Don’t 
you think a great big fellow like me ought to be able 
to support just us two ? I do ; and for that reason your 
very own money is never touched, and I will not allow 
ic to be touched until you are grown up. Then you 
may do as you please with it, but now you may do as 
you please with mine. Here’s your ‘five.’ ” 

“Thank you, Uncle. It seems so funny, though, to 
be treating you on your own money. I wonder if any 
other girl in the whole world has an uncle like mine. ’ ’ 

“Plenty of them have. Why, some have half a 
dozen. ’ ’ 

“Half a dozen — yes, but what kind?” asked Mary 
scornfully. 

“Clear our of here, Miss Softsoap. Go pay your law- 
ful debts. If the bill is fifty cents, don’t bring me 
back four silver dollars and ten nickles.” 

“I’ll bring it in paper, every cent.” 

“Indeed! Remember you are not in Canada, where 
they use paper quarters.” 

“I’d hate to have to pay for the box of candy you 
owe me for all the teasing of the past four weeks.” 

“We shall be quits when I balance your vocabulary 
against my debts,” he called after her as she ran off 
in the direction of the dairy. 

“Poor little girl,” he murmured, watching the slight 
form flit in and out among the trees on the hillside. 
“I wish we could build her up a bit. Still, she seems 
brighter for our few weeks here, and a month spent 
with Phil’s lively little crowd ought to do her an im- 
mense amount of good. Wonder what she will think 
of eight boys. But she has had a foretaste of their 
antics with Wilhelmina for a companion, ’ ’ and whistling 
softly, he strode up the hill in response to the supper- 
horn. 

The family at the farm-house kept early hours and 
the guests followed suit. Nine o’clock saw all lights 


Vacation 


105 


out. Before going to sleep, the Doctor once more 
weighed the pros and cons of the question, and, “It is 
for her own good,” was his last waking thought. At 
the same time, in the next room, a little maid murmured 
drowsily, “It will make him happy.” Then, perfectly 
contented, she fell into a dreamless sleep. 

Sunrise found them in the big farm wagon, driving 
briskly over country roads to the station. Soon they 
were speeding towards New York. The Doctor noticed 
the little face beside him growing longer as they neared 
the city. 

“I wish you were coming, Uncle.” 

“I can’t go now, Mary, but I shall be there for the 
last week and bring you and Wilhelmina back in time 
for the opening of school. How will that do?” 

“It’s the next best thing, Uncle. I was thinking last 
night of what you said about some girls having lots of 
uncles, but you can’t make me believe that there is even 
one more like you in the world. I’m glad I have only 
one, anyway.” 

“But you haven’t. You have two.” 

“And who is the other one?” asked Mary, thinking 
he was again playing some joke. 

“Your father had a brother, don’t you remember? 
and a sister, also. They would be your Uncle Alfred and 
Aunt Bertha.” 

“Oh, yes, but they don’t count. I know only you 
and Aunt Mary, so it really seems as if I have just one 
uncle and one aunt,” she said, leaning her head against 
his arm and smiling up at him. 

“And I, too, am well satisfied to have one niece, es- 
pecially when she takes such good care of this poor old 
chap.” 

“No, no, Uncle, you don’t mean that! Vm not glad 
to be the only niece, I can tell you,” vehemently pro- 
tested Mary, looking out the car window and winking 
very hard. 


106 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


4 ‘Confound my stupidity,” muttered the Doctor. 
“Will I ever learn to use any tact!” Putting his arm 
around the child he drew her close to him, saying, You 
misunderstood me, darling. What I mean is that if I 
had a thousand nieces you would still be first with me. 
We are such good chums, you know,” he added, play- 
fully. 

‘ ‘ I ought to have better sense, I guess, but 0 Uncle ! I 
do miss mother and the babies. I just can’t help it.” 

‘ ‘ Of course you can ’t, and we do not expect you to ; 
for though Aunt Mary and I would do everything pos- 
sible to prove how dear ypu are to us, we can never 
supply your mother’s place. We only wish you not to 
grieve too much, for that would do her no good and you 
much harm.” 

“I see now what you mean, Uncle,” lapsing again into 
silence. After some minutes she asked, “What is Mr. 
Marvin like, Uncle?” 

“Very like Wilhelmina. He is taller than I am and 
wears a beard.” 

“Where are we to meet him?” 

“At my apartments. I insisted that he should con- 
sider them his own while in the city.” 

“That was nice, but then you always do nice things.” 

“I haven’t any small change at present, my dear.” 

“Why, did you want to buy peanuts or something? 
I don’t care for anything unless you do.” 

“H’m,” said Uncle looking at her closely, but seeing 
she was in earnest, he added, ‘ ‘ I hope Aunt Mandy and 
Liza took good care of Phil, and that Tom took him to 
drive about the city as I directed. He is determined to 
start for home this afternoon so that I will not be able 
to show him around.” 

By this time they had reached Jersey City where 
they took the ferry and soon landed in New York. Tom 
met them, and as they drove through town, Uncle or- 
dered him to stop at Huyler’s. 


Vacation 


107 


“Come in, now, and select what you like best,” he 
said to Mary. 

“As if you didn’t know,” she replied, and while she 
was busy making her choice, he too seemed very much 
engaged. When they emerged from the store, Mary 
laughed heartily at the immense box he carried. 

“I never knew you had such a sweet tooth,” she re- 
marked. 

“You surely do not think I bought this for myself. 
II is going into your trunk for those young Marvins, and 
you will enjoy seeing them make it disappear, I warrant. 
‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ will be nothing com- 
pared to the raid they will make.” 

As the carriage stopped at the Doctor’s apartments, a 
gentleman ran down the steps, threw open the carriage 
door, seized the Doctor by both hands, and literally drag- 
ged him out on the sidewalk. Mary sat back, greatly en- 
joying the meeting between those two , great , big boys , 
as she afterwards called them when writing to her aunt. 
They shook hands, and they shook hands again, and 
they clapped each other on the back, until such expres- 
sions as, “Frank, old boy, how are you?” and “Phil, 
old chap, I am delighted to see you!” caused the pass- 
ers-by to smile good-naturedly, while Tom could not re- 
press a snicker, and Mary laughed outright, clapping 
her hands gleefully. 

“Oh, I quite forgot you and that biggest man I ever 
saw reached in and lifted her bodily out of the car- 
riage. 

“So,” said he as he set her down on the pavement 
and held her at arm’s length, surveying her from under 
the bushy black brows that would have frightened her 
were it not for the twinkle in the dark eyes beneath, 
“so this is the Mary about whom we have been hearing 
all these weeks. My little Willie will be beside her- 
self with joy when she sees the surprise I have for her. ’ ’ 

“Oh, doesn’t she know I’m coming?” 

“Not a bit of it.” 


108 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Come into the house,” said the Doctor, “We are 
creating a sensation out here. And Tom,” turning to 
that worthy whose face was one wide grin, “one-thirty, 
mind.” 

“Yas suh, Marse Frank, yas suhl” 

The three went up the steps into the house, Mr. Mar- 
vin still holding Mary’s hand in his right, while his left 
arm was thrown about the Doctor’s shoulder. Aunt 
Mandy, bobbing and courtesying, came to meet them, 
while Liza’s smiling face appeared in the background. 

“Now, Liza, we ought to have dinner at twelve. 
Auntie, will you help Mary put the things that are in 
this suit-case into her trunk ? that is, whatever you think 
she should take. Carry your small suit-case, Mary, 
with only what you need on the train. And Auntie, 
will there be room for this?” he asked, pointing to the 
box. 

“I’ll see, Marse Frank honey, I sho will,” she re- 
plied, leaving the room. 

“If there is any danger of crushing her finery, don’t 
mind it,” he called after her. “I can send it by ex- 
press. You had better see if she has all you w r ant in the 
trunk, Mary,” he continued, as he and Mr. Marvin 
settled themselves for a chat. “It seems a shame, Phil, 
to have you run away like this,” he began. 

“I suppose it does, Frank,” replied the older man, 
“but I have been North now for two weeks, and I dis- 
like being away for so much of the vacation. You see, 
the older boys and Willie are off at school all year, so I 
wish to see all I can of them while they are home.” 

“Well, never mind. I have promised Mary to go 
after her, and bring her and Wilhelmina back to school. 
Then you and I can make up for this short visit. Here 
is Liza to call us to dinner, and we shall have a smoke 
later on.” 

“My, how those two talked!” wrote Mary to Mother 
Madeline. “They hardly took time to eat until I told 


Vacation 


109 


Uncle I feared a relax for him. I was nearly starved, 
for we had had our breakfast about five o’clock.” 

Promptly at half-past one, Tom appeared at the door 
and drove them to the station. When it was nearly 
time for the train to pull out, the Doctor left the sleeper 
and stood on the platform where he could talk to them 
through the window. 

“0 Uncle, please send me some stamps. I have only 
four or five and they will never do for all the letters I 
am going to write you.” 

“Hear that, Phil! that is one on the Sunny South. 
She thinks she can’t buy even a postage stamp down 
there. Ha, ha ! ” 

“And Uncle dear , will you write to me?” 

“Every day, sweetheart. I shall stop on my way 
home to lay in a supply of writing material and postage 
stamps. Ha, ha, ha, Phil! That is an awful one.” 

“Wait until I get you down there, old chap,” re- 
torted Mr. Marvin. 

“And Uncle, I left all necessary directions with 
Tom ” 

“For what, pray?” 

“Why, how to take care of you and not let you get 
a relax — ” 

“The mischief you did,” exclaimed the Doctor. It 
was now Mr. Marvin’s turn to laugh at the look of dis- 
may on his friend’s face. “You mean to say you have 
put that black rascal up to dogging my steps for a solid 
month? Now, see here, young lady, I discharged you 
as nurse yesterday afternoon, and until I engage you 
again — ” 

“I’ll write now to Tom and countrymand all the or- 
ders I gave him, and mail it at the next station. ’ ’ 

“Well, that is more like it. Time’s up!” he ex- 
claimed, and jumping on a trunk, he lovingly embraced 
the child through the window. Locking both hands 
tightly around his neck, she whispered, “Do, please , take 


110 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


care of yourself, Uncle. You and Auntie are all I’ve 
got now,” and she tried to smile through the tears that 
would come in spite of her efforts to be brave and 
cheerful. 

“I will, darling, I truly will. Quick pet, the train is 
moving. We will be injured if we are not careful.” 
Jumping off the trunk, he ran along beside the train as 
it slowly pulled out, talking cheerily to her until he 
came to the end of the platform, where he stood waving 
his handkerchief until he knew she could no longer see it. 

“It’s the very first time I ever went away without 
him,” she tried to explain to Mr. Marvin, as she dried 
her tears. “We’re such great, great chums, you know.” 

“Yes, Willie has told me all about you both, and I 
think you are a very brave little girl, indeed. Catch 
Willie doing a thing like this.” 

“Oh, but she comes away from you and her mother , 
and stays months and months; and you see, no matter 
how much I love Uncle, he can never be what mother 
was,” she said sadly. 

“Yes, I guess Willie has a good deal of grit; other- 
wise, she would have no peace with those brothers of 
hers. Can you play baseball?” he inquired, anxious to 
divert her mind from dangerous subjects. 

“I never tried, but I’d like to learn.” 

“Let me see,” he said, taking her hands in his big 
palms. “Pretty frail for anything so strenuous. They 
must give you easy balls until these get stronger. Did 
you ever ride horse-back?” 

1 1 Oh yes, and I dearly love it. I missed it so much at 
the farm, but they had no saddle-horses.” 

“We have some fair ponies and very fine roads, so 
you will have one means of enjoying yourself.” 

“I’m sure there will be ever so many ways of doing 
that, with so many to play with. Wilhelmina has told 
me all their names, and ages, and for whom they are 
named, and everything. You see, at school we were so 


Vacation 


111 


much together that we had plenty of time to learn 
everything about each other.” 

“Indeed! but I’ll wager you can’t name that brood 
of mine without making a mistake.” 

“I think I can. First, there’s Phil. He is named 
after you and is fifteen. Then Harry, after his mother. 
Wilhelmina said her name is Henrietta. He’s thirteen 
and loves books. I’ll like him. Joe is next, named for 
your father. He’s eleven. Then Wilhelmina, called 
after her aunt. Next, the twins, seven years old, and 
named after father and Uncle Frank. Let me see,” 
counting on her fingers, “that’s six, isn’t it? Then 
^ comes Fred, five years old; and Dick, three; and the 
baby, Jack, not a year. They are named for uncles. I 
know I’ll love them,” she continued, pulling out her 
locket from inside the neck of her dress. “Those were 
our babies,” she said in a low tone. “I don’t show 
them to many, but I want you to see them.” 

“Your father sent me larger pictures just like these. 
You are very like your mother in appearance. God 
grant you may resemble her in every way; she was a 
beautiful character. Did your uncle ever tell you how 
he and I were at college together, and how I spent the 
short vacations at his home ? ’ ’ 

“He told me some about it, but I’d like to hear more, 
please.” 

“Well, he and your father and I were the best of 
friends, though he was much younger than either of 
us. We could not leave our homes immediately on fin- 
ishing our preparatory course. My father died when 
I was young, and, being the eldest of the family, I had 
to look after the old place until my brother Fred was of 
an age to shoulder the burden. It was much the same 
v/ith your father. His mother was an invalid, and 
knowing she could not live many years, he deferred his 
college course until after her death. We met for the 
first time on the train bound for New York, and by the 
time we reached that city, we had become fast friends. 
Your uncle was the youngest man in our class, and 


112 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


seemed almost a boy to us old fellows; nevertheless, he 
was a great favorite, and I always attributed your 
father ’s conversion to his example. But really, I am for- 
getting my manners. It is so long since I traveled with 
a young lady. I believe it is the proper thing to pro- 
vide her with candy and something to read.” 

“I have a most be-yew-tee-ful box of candy in my 
suit-case, and I never thought of it.” 

Down the child got on her knees and began tugging 
at the straps. 

“ Allow me,” said Mr. Marvin gallantly. In a mo- 
ment he had the suit-case opened on the seat before her. 

‘ 1 Thank you. I do hope you like candy. Uncle does. ’ ’ 

“I have reason to remember his fondness for it,” 
laughed Mr. Marvin. “One of our biggest college 
scrapes originated in an innocent box of candy. I 
must tell you about it some day.” 

“Do, please. I love to hear about scrapes, but I 
never seem to get into any bad ones myself. Poor Wil- 
helmina does, though, lots of them. Don’t you like 
caramels? Wilhelmina and I think they are the most 
economonickle kind of candy. They are so chewy that 
they last a long time. Dear me ! I never wrote that 
letter to Tom. I’d better do it right now. If you care 
to go smoke, I don’t mind being left alone. Uncle al- 
ways goes.” 

“I believe I shall, and if your letter is finished when 
I return, I shall mail it at the next station. Have you 
noticed how few stops we are making? This is a very 
fast train. Perhaps after you write your letter you 
may like to take a siesta. I shall have the porter bring 
some pillows and you can lie down here on the seat for 
awhile. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, Mr. Marvin. It does seem a long, long 
time since I got up this morning. It is going to be hard 
work writing this. Everything wobbles so. However, 
if Tom can’t make it out, Uncle will be only too glad 
to help him.” 


Vacation 


113 


So she scratched away for some time, and then paused 
with an anxious pucker on her brow. How should she 
sign herself? She had never written to anyone but her 
mother, her uncle, and her aunt, and to them she was 
always “Your loving Mary.” After giving the mat- 
ter due consideration, she decided that this was a case 
which called for “Yours respectably, Mary Selwyn,” 
and thus she concluded her letter. When she had ad- 
dressed and stamped the envelope, she slipped it under 
one of the straps of the suit-case where Mr. Marvin 
would he sure to see it. Then she curled herself up on 
the seat, where a half-hour later he found her asleep. 
Having disposed of her letter, he settled himself in 
the opposite section to read his paper. Now and then 
he looked across the aisle and chuckled as he thought of 
his little daughter ’s surprise and delight when she would 
see what he had brought her from New York. A sudden 
slackening of speed and a jolt or two finally aroused 
the little girl. Mr. Marvin again took his place beside 
her, remarking, “You look the better for your little 
rest. ’ ’ 

“Have I been asleep long? I don’t like to go to 
sleep on a train for fear I may miss something that I 
ought to see.” 

“We passed Trenton a while ago, but no doubt you 
have been there before.” 

“Uncle and I traveled over this road as far as Bal- 
timore, two years ago. When will we get to Philadel- 
phia?” 

“About five o’clock. Have you ever visited that 
city?” 

“Yes, Mr. Marvin, with Uncle. He took me to In- 
dependence Hall, the Mint, and ever so many inter- 
esting places. It makes history and joggerfy easier 
when you really see things.” 

“You have had the advantage of Willie in that way. 
She has traveled very little. I have taken the older boys 


114 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


about some, but it seems to me the younger children are 
better off with their mother. ’ ’ 

“After you went to smoke, I was thinking about ten- 
nis. Have you a court?” 

“Yes, indeed, the boys have fixed up a very good one. 
But don’t you find a racket pretty heavy?” 

“An ordinary one, yes; but you see Uncle had a 
racket with a very light frame made for me, so I have 
no trouble at all.” 

‘ ‘ Have you ever taken part in private theatricals ? 9 ’ 

“We are all in the plays at school, but I never have 
any special part. I am not much of an electrocutionist. 
My voice doesn’t carry far enough for the big hall.” 

“H’m, I see,” said Mr. Marvin, coughing behind his 
paper to hide his amusement. “Well, you will have a 
chance to shine now, for my little folks enjoy nothing 
so much as getting up a play. They have a big room 
in the top of the house fitted up for a theater, with a 
nice little stage and a curtain painted by Harry. The 
latter is very realistic, I must admit. The scene is 
taken from early American history and represents a 
band of Indians scalping the inhabitants of a little vil- 
lage, which is in flames. It is truly vivid. The boys 
will be delighted to have you for the heroine. Wilhel- 
mina, being the only girl, is very much in demand and 
sometimes has to take several parts in one play, for the 
boys absolutely refuse to wear petticoats no matter 
how urgent the case may be. Sometimes they inveigle 
their mother and me into acting parts, but we old folks 
prefer to sit in the audience.” 

“It must be grand!” exclaimed Mary, her eyes glis- 
tening. “I hope they will have one while I’m there.” 

“Suppose we practice one to have when your uncle 
comes down. We shall all take part, and some of the 
neighbors can be invited so he will not be lonely in the 
audience.” 

“And have it a surprise to him? Oh, that will be 
fine ! ’ ’ cried the child, clapping her hands. 


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115 


At Philadelphia where there was a delay of fifteen 
minutes, Mary seized the opportunity to write the fol- 
lowing : 

Dear, dear Uncle, — Just a teeny, weeny line here at 
Philadelphia, where the train has stopped for a quar- 
ter of an hour. Mr. Marvin said we had better get off 
for a little exercise. I am writing this in the station. 
He is grand to me and tells me lots of things just like 
you do when we are traveling. He is waiting for me 
now to walk around a little with him. Lots and lots of 
love from Your own Mary. 

It was late the following afternoon when the train 
reached Waverly, the station nearest Mr. Marvin’s home. 
As he and his little companion made their way down 
the aisle to the door, the latter exclaimed, “Why, the 
circus must be here! Do look at that wagon. Isn’t it 
funny ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, that is the ‘Marvin Circus Wagon’ — in plain 
language, our family wagonette, fixed up in honor of 
my home-coming. There is no telling how it would look 
had they known you would accompany me. ’ ’ 

Mary took another look at the gaily decorated ve- 
hicle. It was draped with red, white, and blue bunting, 
even the reins and the spokes of the wheels being wrap- 
ped with that material. Immense sun-flowers were fas- 
tened to every available spot, and peering over the side 
was a row of eager little faces. Wilhelmina, whose 
place was with Phil in front, stood up on the seat as 
the train came to a stop. 

“There he is, there he is!” she cried. “Oh, I wish 
I had gone with Harry and Joe.” Then catching sight 
of Mary, she uttered a scream of delight, leaped from 
the seat to the rim of the wheel, jumped lightly to the 
ground, and was off up the platform before Phil could 
realize what had happened. 

“Oh, you dearest, darlingest daddy,” she exclaimed, 
throwing her arms about her father and then almost 
smothering Mary in a joyful embrace. “If this isn’t 


116 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


the grandest surprise! It’s better than all the presents 
in all the stores of New York. No wonder mother 
wouldn’t let me into the room next to mine. She was 
getting it ready for Mary.” 

“I knew I could not bring you anything you would 
like better,” laughed her father. 

“If you will give me the checks, father,” said Harry, 
“Joe and I will see that Sam gets the right trunks. He 
has the wagon down yonder.” 

“Very well, my boy, and I shall escort the ladies to 
the — well, what have you named your wonderful con- 
veyance? Mary thought it was a circus wagon.” 

“Did she?” cried Wilhelmina. “Oh, I’m so glad it 
looks like one. I just love circuses. We were getting 
up a grand one to surprise you, father, and I practiced 
riding Dixie standing up on his back until I could do it 
fine, and this morning I gave a dress rehearsal. My 
fairy dress, you know, Mary, was just the thing to 
wear, and everything was grand until Jinny saw me 
and ran and told mother, and then I had to promise 
never to do it again.” She sighed deeply and contin- 
ued, “It’s been the height of my ambition to be able 
to ride standing up.” 

“Indeed!” exclaimed her father. “I wonder what 
those good ladies who taught you all year would say to 
such noble sentiments.” 

Wilhelmina hung her head, glad that they had reached 
the wagonette, where further conversation was rendered 
impossible on account of the noisy greetings from its 
occupants. 

“Sit by me, father, sit by me!” 

“I’m the littleth here, and ” 

“Oh, that doesn’t count now, Fred. f Little folks 
should be ’ ” 

“Let’s take turns. A mile apiece.” 

“Boys, boys, you will frighten the ladies. Be quiet 
until I introduce you properly.” 


Vacation 


117 


Soon all were comfortably settled, and when Harry 
and Joe had joined them, Phil turned the horses to- 
wards home. 

“There’s a new calf, father.” 

“And loths and loths of little chickenths.” 

“And the brown colt broke his leg, and the horse doc- 
tor came,” added Wilhelmina. “Phil called him a ‘veg- 
etable sturgeon.’ ” 

“Aw, I never did either,” from the front seat; but 
the protest was lost on the little girl, who now pro- 
ceeded to give all her attention to her guest. In spite 
of her incessant chatter, Mary could not help noticing 
the twins who sat at the far end of the opposite seat. 
There was much mysterious whispering and nudging 
going on between them, and finally Bob leaned over and 
said something to Fred whose face lit up in a wonderful 
manner. Then in his drawling lisp the latter began, 
“Fawthah, whath the mathah with your pockeths?” 

“No reflections on this suit, young man, or you will 
hurt Mary’s feelings. She knows it is the latest of New 
York styles.” 

“Oh, the thuit ith juth lovely, but thoth pockeths ’ll 
be all out of shape. Mothah never leths uth put lumpy 
things in the pockeths of our beth thuiths, doth she 
boyths?” and the little fellow turned to his brothers to 
have his speech verified. 

“You’re right, she doesn’t Freddie.” 

“Well,” laughed their father, beginning to take from 
his pockets the various small knobby packages which 
had so worried Fred, “you may as well have them now 
as later.” 

The boys received their gifts with loud exclamations 
of delight. 

“It takes father to get a fellow the right thing,” said 
Phil to Harry, now his companion on the front seat. 

“Yes, I think he never quite got over being a boy 
himself.” 


118 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


After a half -hour’s drive along a beautiful country 
road, Phil stopped the horses before a pair of great 
iron gates and waited until they were opened by the 
blackest black boy Mary had ever seen. 

4 ‘ Caught napping, eh, Wash ? ’ ’ 

“No sah! Marse Marvin, no sah! I jes’ stepped in 
thar to git ma knife,” protested the lad, jerking his 
thumb in the direction of a small stone house inside the 
gates. “I’se powahful glad to see yo’ back, Massa.” 

“Thank you, Wash, I am delighted to get home again 
and to see the place looking so well.” 

The boy showed his delight at the words of praise by 
turning hand-springs on the grass after the wagonette 
had rolled on up the broad avenue. 

“That was George Washington Johnson, whose duty 
it is to attend to the gates and keep the grounds about 
them in order. He lives with his mother in the lodge 
there,” explained Mr. Marvin to Mary. 

“Don’t the darkies have funny names? Tom, the boy 
who cleans Uncle’s office, is Thomas Jefferson Faunt- 
leroy. ’ ’ 

“Wait till you hear some of the names around here,” 
said Frank. ‘ ‘ Those others are mild compared to them. ’ ’ 

“There’s Jinny with the babies, father.” 

Mr. Marvin turned to wave to his two youngest, who, 
in charge of their colored nurse, were playing under the 
trees. 

“You don’t mean to say all this is your front yard, 
Wilhelmina,” exclaimed Mary, looking about her in 
search of the house. 

“I s’pose that’s what you’d call it, but we don’t 
think of it exactly that way. You see, this place be- 
longed to our great, great grandfather, or some relation 
like that, and it’s what you call a plantation. It was 
bigger then than it is now, but grandfather sold part 
of it.” 

At this point the drive-way turned, and through the 


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119 


trees Mary caught glimpses of a big white house with 
wide verandas upstairs and down. A few moments 
later, Phil drew up with a flourish before the broad 
stone steps down which Mrs. Marvin was hastening to 
welcome the travelers. Her words of greeting were lost 
in the babel of voices which ensued. 

“Look, mother, isn’t this fine?” “See what father 
brought me/” “This is the best of all, mother,” until 
she finally extricated herself from the noisy crowd and 
took possession of Mary saying, “Dinner will be ready 
in half an hour. In the meantime we shall go upstairs 
and remove some of the travel stains. Father, Mr. Car- 
rol is waiting to see you in the library.” 

As they turned to ascend the steps, Mary noticed 
that the house, though a two-story one like most south- 
ern homes, was much broader across the front than any 
she had seen. She expected to enter a fine, wide hall, 
and could not repress a little exclamation of astonish- 
ment when she stepped into what seemed to be an im- 
mense room two stories high, occupying the center of the 
house. Opening off it at the right and left were sev- 
eral large rooms, and half way up, around its wall, ran 
a gallery, on which opened the doors of the rooms on 
the second floor. A broad stair-case of dark, highly pol- 
ished wood stretched away towards the wall opposite 
the front door until it reached a landing from which 
two slightly narrower flights ascended, right and left, 
to the gallery above. 

“This isn’t much like New York sky-scrapers, is it?” 
laughed Wilhelmina. “Here, we have room to spread 
out, and there it seems as if there’s space only up in 
the air.” 

By this time they had reached the gallery, and pass- 
ing around it towards the front of the house, they 
paused while Mrs, Marvin took a key from her pocket, 
saying, “We do not waste much time here locking doors, 
but I was so afraid that Wilhelmina would discover our 
secret that I turned the key in this one.” 


120 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“I’m just dying to see what you’ve been doing in 
here the past day or two, mother. I might have known 
that there was something up. Oh ! ” as the door swung 
open, “you made it blue for Mary.” 

“Now, little daughter, you will give Mary the^idea 
that I have done great work in here when I have only 
changed the things on the dresser, put blue ribbons on 
the curtains, and given a touch here and there. But 
ccme,” turning to Mary, “you look so tired. A good 
bath will make you feel better. In the meantime, I 
shall get some of the things out of your trunk. Have 
you the key?” 

“Is my trunk here already?” asked the child in sur- 
prise. “Aunt Mandy put a clean dress in my suit- 
case — just a white linen one that wouldn’t crumple 
easily — but there are thinner ones in the trunk. Why, 
at home we would consider it wonderful if we got our 
trunks the same night.” 

“Sam would be disgraced if he did not have the 
guest’s trunk in her room before she reached it. He 
knows a short way from the station. It is well enough 
for trunks, but I prefer the longer drive.” 

The little girl’s simple toilet was soon completed, and 
the three descended the stairs just as the dinner gong 
sounded. The evening shadows were fast filling the 
great hall, but a ray of the setting sun, slanting across 
the stairway, lighted up Mary’s face and hair so that 
three-year-old Richard ran to his father, crying , 4 ‘ Daddy, 
dey’s a angel tummin’ down tairs wif muddie an’ Wil- 
lie!” 

Mr. Marvin laughed and led the little fellow back 
to the hall. 

“Oo is a angel, isn’t ’oo, like the picser over my bed?” 

Mary knelt and put her arms around the child, say- 
ing, “Why no, I’m just a girl like Wilhelmina. What 
makes you think I’m an angel?” 

“Oo’s dot shiny hair an’ a white dess, but ’oo hasn’t 


Vacation 


121 


any wings; so I is ’fwaid ’oo isn’t a angel at all,” he 
declared, turning away with a disappointed air. 

“But if I were an angel I couldn’t play with you as 
1 mean to do. Won’t you take me to see the baby?” 

“ He ’s afleep now. Dinny put him to bed. He isn ’t 
big nuff to ’tay up for dinner wif daddy, but I is 
and Richard, better known as Dick, drew himself up 
proudly and returned to his father’s side. Mr. Mar- 
vin swung him up to his shoulder, and taking Fred’s 
hand, led the way to the dining room. 

“We do not usually have dinner so late,” said Mrs. 
Marvin to Mary, “but the children begged to wait for 
father tonight. I prefer early hours for little folks.” 

“De little folkses am all in bed,” piped Dick from 
his high chair near his mother at the end of the table. 
Mr. Marvin sat at the head with the little girls at his 
right and left, Harry next to Mary, Phil opposite, the 
twins next to him, and Joe and Fred below Harry. The 
boys were unusually quiet while the serving was being 
done, so that Lyda, the maid, remarked to old Aunt 
Chloe in the kitchen, “It war powahful wise ob Massa 
to fotch dat li’l gal heah.” But by degrees their 
tongues were loosened and the fun began. 

“Mary looks like a white dove among a flock of black- 
birds,” remarked Mr. Marvin; for with the exception 
of Harry, who had his mother’s fair skin and auburn 
hair, all the little Marvins were black-haired like their 
father, and brown as Indians. 

“You forget, father, we have one rooster,” said Bob 
with a significant glance at Harry ’s head. 

“Why, I think Harry’s hair is a beautiful color!” 
exclaimed Mary. “Uncle’s must have been like that 
when he was young, wasn’t it, Mr. Marvin? Of course 
it is darker now and there is lots of gray in it since — 
since — ” but a howl from the opposite side of the table 
diverted her mind from the sad subject, and she turned 
quickly to see Bob hopping about on one foot holding on 
to his injured shin. 


122 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Robert! what is the trouble?” demanded his mother; 
but “no tattling” was the motto of these boys, and Bob 
sheepishly took his seat, muttering something about 
wishing folks would keep the dogs in the barn. 

“You are not bitten, are you, son?” anxiously in- 
quired Mrs. Marvin. 

“Oh no, mother, it’s all right now,” but when her at- 
tention was given to Dick, Bob shook his fist at Harry 
who was innocently plying his knife and fork, seemingly 
unconscious of the many pairs of merry black eyes fixed 
upon him. 

“A barked shin is sometimes more painful than a 
bitten one, isn’t it, my boy?” laughed his father. 

“Have you many dogs, Mr. Marvin?” asked Mary, 
devoutly hoping he had not. 

“I say,” interrupted Frank, “we all call the Doctor, 
‘Uncle Frank,’ and I don’t see why Mary can’t call you 
and mother, ‘Aunt Phil’ and ‘Uncle Etta.’ Aw!” as a 
shout arose, “you all know what I mean.” 

“Certainly, Mary may do as she likes, but I should 
prefer ‘Uncle Phil,’ if you please.” 

“Oh, may I call you that?” Then hesitating a mo- 
ment, she added, “But I don’t know, for you see it 
could never mean quite the same as ‘ Uncle Frank. ’ Still, 
if you wouldn’t mind ” 

“Bless your heart, child! Frank only means that 
Mrs. and Mr. sound too formal, and it would be more 
like home for you to say aunt and uncle.” 

“I want to say sumfin,” announced Dick, rapping 
with his spoon on the table to silence the noisy chatter 
about him. “Oo all is makin’ so much noise.” 

“Well, Dick, we are listening now, so proceed.” 

“I don’t want to ’ceed! I want to ask her” aiming 
the spoon at Mary, “to turn wif me to see my billy-doat. 

Will ’oo?” 

“Not tonight, dear,” interposed his mother. “Mary 
has been on the train since yesterday and is very tired. 


Vacation 


123 


Besides, it is too dark; but she will go with you tomor- 
row after breakfast/ ’ 

“I say!” cried Joe, “Now we have a real white woman 
for ‘Buffalo Bill’s Wild West!’ Willie is as brown as 
an Indian, but Mary can ride in the goat-cart, that’s 
the stage-coach, with Dick. He’ll be her little boy.” 

“I’ll do the scalping,” declared Bob. “It will be 
worth while scalping her.” 

“What about General Custer and his troops?” de- 
manded Harry, loyal to the late admirer of his auburn 
locks, who looked rather alarmed at the fate in store 
for her. “I wonder where you braves will be after we 
take a few cracks at you.” 

“I think it would be advisable to play some milder 
games with the girls,” remonstrated Mr. Marvin. “I 
have a fine prize for a tennis tournament which is to 
begin the day after tomorrow ; so be prepared. ’ ’ 

“And the pony for Mary is in good condition, fa- 
ther,” said Phil, who had shared his mother’s secret. 
‘ ‘ I brought him up from the big pasture this morning. ’ ’ 

“We will go for a ride before breakfast tomorrow, 
Mary,” declared Wilhelmina, enthusiastically. 

“If you manage to get in a ride before breakfast, Sis,” 
laughed Harry, “I’ll give you my new knife with the 
cork-screw in it.” 

“Muddie,” demanded Dick, in a whisper that could 
be heard all over the room, “why tan’t Willie have goldy 
turls like Mary ? ’ ’ 

“Don’t you like Willie’s curls? They are just like 
yours.” 

“Willie’s hair always reminds me of Jinny’s — so 
black and kinky,” observed Bob to his twin in an un- 
dertone intended, however, for his sister’s ears. 

That she caught the remark and took it to heart, too, 
was proved by an event of the following morning. 

Dinner over, the family repaired to the veranda. As 
she passed through the hall at Mrs. Marvin’s side, Mary 


124 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


could not avoid hearing the conversation which was 
carried on in a low tone behind her. Wilhelmina had 
purposely waited until Fred caught up with her. 

“I don’t think it was very polite of you, Freddie, to 
come to dinner with my comp’ny without ever washing 
your hands,” she began in an aggrieved tone. 

“I did wath ’em,” stoutly declared Fred. “That’s 
juth shadowth what you thee on ’em. I’th scrubbed 
’em with a bruth. That ain’t dirth — ith juth from 
playin’ ball an’ it won’t wath off.” 

“You don’t scrub hard enough, and I just know she’s 
mortally insulted.” 

Fred paused under the light to examine his chubby 
palms; then asked anxiously, “I thay, Willie, you don’t 
think she notithed ’em, honeth, do you?” 

“Well, I don’t know,” was the answer in a mollified 
tone, as his sister saw her lecture had produced some 
effect. 

“Don’t thay anything, Willie, pleathe, an’ I’ll go to 
Tham in the mornin’ an’ askth him for thome of that 
what he cleanth the harneth with. Maybe that’ll take 
it off.” 

“Mercy, child! Don’t you dare. You’ll poison your- 
self. Just use lots and lots of soap and hot water and 
let ’em soak awhile.” 

“All right, but don’t tell her.” 

“We must let you go to bed early tonight, Mary. I 
am sure you are very tired,” said Mrs. Marvin, when all 
were comfortably settled on the wide airy porch. 

“I feel rested already. It doesn’t tire me much to 
travel, especially when I have someone to point out in- 
teresting things, as Uncle Phil did,” looking up shyly 
as she used the new name for the first time. 

“That sounds first rate, doesn’t it mother?” asked 
Harry. 

“It does, indeed. Did father tell you that Uncle 
Frank is coming down in a few weeks?” 


Vacation 


125 


“They did not give me a chance/ ’ declared Mr. Mar- 
vin, trying to make himself heard above the acclama- 
tions with which the joyful news was received. 

“Oh, won’t that he jolly! We must plan all sorts of 
things for his visit, n cried Phil, who with the older 
boys had the greatest admiration for the Doctor. 

“Get your banjo, Phil, and let us have some music,” 
said his father, and a pleasant hour was spent, singing 
the minstrel songs so dear to the southern heart. 

“Father must hear you play tomorrow, Mary,” said 
Wilhelmina, “but I’ll have to hide my head forever 
after. ’ ’ 

“But you have taken lessons only a little while,” 
urged Mary, “while I have taken for over two years.” 

“And you bve to practice, while I do not.” 

1 ‘I should think you would like to play for the boys 
to sing. That is what I want to do for Uncle. I can 
play several songs for him now, but he sings some that 
he has no music for, so he plays his own accompaniment 
for those. His favorite goes like this,” and quite simply 
she sang, 

“ ’Thou’rt like unto a flower, 

As fair, as pure, as bright, 

I gaze on thee and sadness 

Steals o’er my heart’s delight, 

I long on those golden tresses 
My folded hands to lay, 

Praying that Heav’n may preserve thee 
So fair, so pure alway.’ 

He always puts his heart and soul into it, and I know 
he’s thinking of someone, but I’ve never been able to 
find out who it is.” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” inquired Mr. Marvin, 
smiling in the darkness. 

“Oh! I coax him to tell me every time he sings it; 
but he only asks me if I’m not the least bit jealous, and 
then he laughs and sings, ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ 
or something else just as silly to tease me. Of course 


126 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


I’m not jealous, but I should love to know that person. 
She must be very beautiful and good. Uncle Phil, may- 
be you could help me to guess. You must have known 
many of Uncle’s friends when you were younger. Have 
you any idea who it is?” 

“I have a very good idea, indeed,” laughed Mr. Mar- 
vin. 

“And so have I,” echoed his wife. 

“And I!” “And I!” cried Phil and Harry. 

“Isn’t that strange! You all know who it is and I 
can’t even guess. But perhaps it is someone who lives 
near here. Do you think I’ll see her?” 

“Without the slightest doubt, you will see her many 
times. ’ ’ 

“Why! you have ” but a firm hand covering his 

mouth and the following from Wilhelmina put a timely 
end to Harry’s disclosure. 

“It always seems to me the silliest thing to say a per- 
son is like a flower. I think the American Beauty is the 
finest flower there is, but I certainly shouldn’t care to 
look like one. Just imagine hair that color red ! Some 
shades, like mother’s, are just beautiful; but not the 
American Beauty color. And think of such a complex- 
ion ! And a body only as big around as the stem, and 
leaves for hands, and roots for feet! No, I can’t see 
how anyone can look 4 like unto a flower.’ There’s a 
picture of some great musician hanging in the room at 
school where I practice, and his hair does remind me of 
a chrysanthemum. You know, Mary. His name begins 
with P-a-d-e-, but I could never pronounce the rest, so 
I just called him Paddy for short. Of course, pansies 
look like faces, though they are more like cats with little 
whiskers. But the colors of them! Still, I read of a 
man who got purple with rage, so maybe he did look like 
a purple pansy. Then the pale yellow or cream-colored 
ones might do for those people whose hair and face are 
all the same color. Even their eyes are a yellowish 
green. But excuse me! Don’t ever tell me that I’m 


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127 


‘like unto a flower’ unless you wish to hurt my feel- 
ings.’ ’ 

“No danger that anyone will ever say such a thing 
about you, Sis. The wildest flower that grows is tame 
compared to you,” declared Harry. 

“But Wilhelmina,” urged Mary, “the song doesn’t 
mean that people look like flowers, but that they rer 
mind us of them in some way. I’ll tell you how they 
do, some time.” 

“I fear Willie has little of the poet in her, Mary,” 
laughed Mr. Marvin. 

“Why father,” protested Wilhelmina, “I just love 
poetry — that is, some kinds, like Paul Revere’ s Ride 
and How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to 
Aix. Something with lots of dash and go to it. It’s 
one of the greatest disappointments of my life that I 
didn’t live when there were Indians all around this part 
of the country, or even at the time of the Civil War, so 
I could have jumped on Dixie and gone tearing around 
to warn the people that the Indians or the Yankees 

were coming, and oh! excuse me, Mary, I forgot 

that you are from New York.” 

“That’s all right, Wilhelmina. You haven’t hurt my 
feelings a bit. I’m half a Southerner myself, you know. 
Father’s people always lived in Virginia. But never 
you mind. I just know that some fine day you will do 
something grand and brave to make us all proud of 
you. It doesn’t always need Indians nor Yankees for 
folks to do brave things. Sometimes there is a flood, or 
a fire, or something, and then people show what kind of 
stuff they are made of. But dear me, I hope I’ll never 
be in anything like that. I am such a coward. Why ! a 
beetle is enough to make me run most a mile, and if I 
ever saw a snake!! Well, I really don’t know what I 
would do. Do you remember the night the bat got into 
the study-hall, Wilhelmina? I certainly disgraced my- 
self, that time.” 

“Well, so did everyone else. You were not the only 
one that screamed and jumped around.” 


128 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“And you were just as cool as could be, and chased 
it out as if it had been a fly. Oh, you’ll do something 
grand some day, Wilhelmina, and perhaps by that time 
I’ll be able to write a poem about you.” 

“And I shall set it to music,” laughed Phil, as he 
commenced another song. 

“Why don’t you learn to play some of Phil’s songs 
on the piano, Wilhelmina?” inquired Mary, when the 
voices had died away. “Uncle and I play a good many 
together since I found his banjo.” 

“Many a lively evening he gave us with that same 
banjo when we were at College,” said Mr. Marvin. 
“Some of the boys had splendid voices, and we used to 
make the old rafters ring.” 

“I’d just love to play with Phil,” declared Wilhel- 
mina, “but Sister Dominic won’t teach me the things 
I like. I could play The Wearing of the Green just fine, 
before I took lessons at all.” 

“Huh!” from Joe. “Nobody could sing it ‘just fine’ 
when you played it. You used to hum the notes that 
you couldn’t find right away.” 

“I’ll play it for you tomorrow, to prove it,” insisted 
his sister. 

“In order to accomplish all you have planned for to- 
morrow, little daughter, you had better retire at once. 
Come, ’ ’ said her mother, “the sandman is already busy. ’ ’ 

“I wathn’t athleep,” protested Fred, as she lifted 
him in her arms. 

“You snored,” declared Frank. 

“It wath the breethe bio win’ in the treeth,” he called 
back as he was borne away. 

Mary, remembering Wilhelmina ’s recent lecture, pat- 
ted the chubby hand which hung over Mrs. Marvin’s 
shoulder. 

“Will you show me your guinea-pigs, tomorrow, Fred- 
die?” 

“Thure, I will,” came the drowsy murmur, though 


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129 


at the same time the little fist was tightly doubled up to 
hide “the shadowth.” 

“My room is right next to yours,” said Wilhelmina. 
“See, we can leave the door between them open. They 
are just alike — size, shape, furniture, everything, ex- 
cept you have blue where I have pink. Down stairs, this 
part of the house is like a great big bay window, but up 
here they made two rooms of it. The house faces south, 
so no matter how hot it is, we who sleep on this side 
always get a breeze at night.” 

“It’s all lovely — everything and everybody. I thought 
I’d he afraid of so many boys, but I’m not a bit. And 
Mr. and — I mean Uncle Phil and Aunt Etta couldn’t 
he kinder if they tried.” 

“I’m so glad you like it. You can’t imagine how 
happy it makes me to have you here. But come, mother 
will be in as soon as she puts Fred to bed. I’ll tell you 
what we’ll do. Let’s put on our kimonas and I will 
come in here. We can talk while we are brushing our 
hair.” 

Thus Mrs. Marvin found them. 

“Not in bed yet? If you try to tell Mary everything 
tonight, Wilhelmina, you will have nothing left to talk 
about during her visit.” 

“Mother, we have a secret already. I think, Mary, 
we had better tell mother and keep it a secret from fa- 
ther. Next year,” turning again to her mother, “I in- 
tend to practice and practice, and Mary is going to ask 
Sister Dominic to let us learn duets together. You can 
play Mary’s part when I come home. Just imagine you 
or Mary playing with me.” 

“Nothing will give me greater pleasure. You secret 
is indeed a lovely one.” 

“It was Mary’s idea. I’d never have thought of it in 
a hundred years.” 

“I hope you will adopt a great many more of Mary’s 
ideas, especially if they are as excellent as this one. 
Run of to bed now, and I shall go down to father for 


130 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


a while,” and kissing the two little girls good-night, she 
went to join her husband on the porch. 

An hour later, on her way to bed, she stopped in her 
little daughter’s room, and finding Wilhelmina asleep, 
tiptoed across to the door of the adjoining one. She was 
turning away, satisfied that Mary, too, was in the land 
of dreams, when a muffled sound caused her to pause 
and listen. Entering the room, she softly closed the 
door behind her, and going quickly to the bed, pulled 
aside the pillows beneath which Mary was striving to 
smother her sobs. 

“My dear, dear child, what is the matter? What has 
happened to make you so unhappy?” Kneeling beside 
the bed, she put her arms tenderly about the little girl. 
Then, as Mary clung to her without answering, she con- 
tinued, “Has Wilhelmina said anything to hurt you, 
darling ? She is sometimes thoughtless, but I have never 
found her intentionally unkind.” 

“No, no!” sobbed the child. “It’s because — you are 
all — so kind that — it — makes me — remember things. 
Oh ! — I want my mother ! ’ ’ 

“I know, darling, I know,” said Mrs. Marvin sooth- 
ingly, and with loving words she strove to quiet her. 
By degrees Mary grew calmer. 

“It’s over now,” she said with a long sigh. “I 
didn’t think anyone would hear me; but sometimes the 
feeling gets so strong I just can’t help having a good 
cry. ’ ’ 

“I am afraid you are quite worn out — more so than 
you realize. I shall stay with you for a little w r hile,” 
declared Mrs. Marvin, drawing a low chair to the bed- 
side. A step in the hall caught her attention. “Ex- 
cuse me a moment, dear,” and rising, she went to the 
door, where she knew her husband was waiting. 

“I think she will be all right now, Phil,” she said in 
response to his anxious inquiry. “No, she is not ill. A 
doctor could do her no good. It is mothering, not doc- 
toring, the poor little thing needs. I shall stay here 


Vacation 


131 


until she is quiet. ” Returning to the bedside, she sat 
fanning the hot little head until she was sure that Mary- 
had forgotten her sorrows in sleep. 

The next morning the little girl awoke to find her 
room flooded with sunshine, and imagining it to be quite 
late, she said her prayers and dressed quickly. “It 
would never do,” she thought, “to be late for break- 
fast the very first morning.” Peeping into Wilhel- 
mina’s room, she saw that that young lady had no in- 
tention of stirring for some time, so she opened the door 
and went out into the hall. All was quiet. Then she 
realized that it was still very early. Returning to her 
room, she stepped out of one of the long windows on to 
the wide porch, and stood drinking in the beauty of the 
scene before her. Her eyes wandered over the broad, 
bright green acres of cotton and tobacco to the dark 
back-ground of pine forest which bounded her view on 
the east. In front of the house, the grounds sloped 
away to the stone wall dividing them from the road, 
glimpses of which she could see through the great old 
trees and masses of shrubbery. Curious to know what 
lay on the other side of the house, she tiptoed around 
the bend of the porch to a point which commanded a fine 
view of the town five miles to the southwest. The land 
between was occupied by beautiful homes, each with its 
surrounding park and fields. Unaccustomed to judge 
distances in the country, Mary thought the town much 
nearer than it really was, so that when she caught 
sight of the little church steeple with its golden cross 
glistening in the sunlight, she hastened back to her 
room with the intention of going to Mass. Very quietly 
she made her way along the gallery and down the stairs. 
The front door stood open, so she knew that some of the 
servants must be up ; however, she slipped out unob- 
served and walked quickly down the drive-way toward 
the big gates. Even this distance was greater than it 
had seemed from the porch, but she thought she might 
meet Wash and learn from him a short way to the 
Church. As she approached the lodge, the little colored 
boy, rubbing his eyes, emerged from it. 


132 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Why foah dem white folks cain’t stay in bed an’ 
not git up so powahful early, am mo’ dan dis chile kin 
tell,” he yawned. 

Mary thought the speech was intended for her; but 
from the start the boy gave when she spoke, she knew 
he had not seen her. 

“Whah yo ’ come fum!” he cried. “Am yo’ a sper- 
rick ? ’ ’ 

“I came here last evening from New York, and if you 
will please open the gates and tell me the shortest way 
to Church, I’ll be much obliged to you.” 

“Wal, I declah! yo’ is sartinly de whitest white folks 
I eber seed. Now, ’bout dem gates,” scratching his head 
dubiously, “Marse done tol’ me neber to open dem 

gates fo’ none ob de chilluns, but den yo’ all ain’t 

none ob his chilluns nohow, so I reckon mebbe I kin open 
dem gates fo’ yo! But, Missy, it am a mighty powahful 
long ways to dat Church. Nobody ’round hyah eber 
’tempts to walk it.” 

“It doesn’t look so very far; but if I thought Mr. 
Marvin wouldn’t want you to open the gates, I shouldn’t 
think of going.” 

“Wal, dat’s what he done tol’ dis hyah niggah, an’ 
he done ’pressed it on me fo’ sho! But,” brightening 
visibly, “yo’ kin ax him yo’ own self. I heahs him 
acomin’ now.” 

Mary, too, distinctly heard hoof-beats on the smooth 
hard drive. Presently, around the bend of the road he 
appeared, driving a pretty little horse and runabout. 

“So you got ahead of me,” he called cheerily. “May 
I ask, ‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’ ” 

“Not very far,” laughed Mary, “unless you will let 
Wash open the gates.” 

“Judging from your hat, we are bound for the same 
place; but you had better jump in her with me, unless 
you enjoy a ten-mile walk before breakfast.” 

“Ten miles!” echoed Mary. 


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133 


4 ‘Exactly. Five there and five back. I am even 
doubtful about such a long drive for you. It would be 
wiser, I think, to let you get some milk and something to 
eat before we go. There is plenty of time. ’ ’ 

“Really, I don’t need it. At the Convent, I’m so ac- 
customed to getting up early and not having breakfast 
right away, that I’m sure I’ll be all right until we get 
back.” 

“Very well, then. But there is no necessity of your 
rising as early as you did today; six o’clock will be 
time enough. I saw you from my window and guessed 
your destination, but felt sure I could overtake you be- 
fore you had gone very many miles, even if you had suc- 
ceeded in coaxing Wash to open the gates.” 

“But I wouldn’t do that after he told me you didn’t 
wish it. Is it dangerous to go out on this road alone?” 

“No, not particularly dangerous, though one is apt to 
meet stray cows or an occasional bull. My reason for 
keeping the gates closed is to prevent the little ones 
from roaming too far from the house. But any morn- 
ing you wish to go to Mass, just wait for me on the 
porch. Phil usually accompanies me, but he has had 
to manage affairs during my absence, and is tired out. 
Mother would like to go, but she does not care to leave 
the children too much alone with the servants.” 

After the Mass and the long drive home, Mary was 
quite ready for breakfast ,and was glad to see Mrs. Mar- 
vin, with the baby in her arms, on the porch awaiting 
their return. 

“You and father are the early birds this morning,” 
she said, greeting the child affectionately. She feared 
lest traces of last night’s storm should still be visible, 
and was greatly relieved when the little girl lifted to her 
a face as calm as the beautiful morning itself. “I im- 
pressed it on Wilhelmina,” she continued, “that you 
were not to be disturbed this morning, but from present 
indications, she herself is the only one who has profited 
by my warning. You must have a fine appetite for 


134 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


your breakfast. The boys are already waiting," and 
she led the way to the dining room. 

“Where ith Willie, moth-ah?" drawled Fred. 

“I have sent Jinny up to see. She will be here soon." 

“All de pannie-takes will be eated up," observed Dick, 
anxiously. “P’ease put some away for her, daddy," 
for the little fellow was very fond of his only sister. 

“Oh, I think Aunt Chloe has plenty more in the 
kitchen. Besides, Willie must learn to be on time. Here 
she is, now." 

A shout of merriment greeted the little girl as she 
slipped behind her father’s chair into her place. 

“He, he!" giggled Freddie. “Willie looketh like a 
dwownded wat." 

“My dear child!" exclaimed her mother, “what have 
you done to your hair?" 

“She looks as though she has forsaken the vanities 
of the world in good earnest," laughed Mr. Marvin. 
“Mary, what notions have you been putting into her 
head ? ’ ’ 

“You may all laugh as much as you like," declared 
the object of all this mirth, wiping her forehead to re- 
move the rivulets of water trickling from her hair, “but 
I am going to wear it this way until," she looked about 
to see that Lyda was not in the room, “until it is no 
longer as woolly and kinky as Jinny’s," and the hand- 
kerchief was again required for the back of her neck. 

“There’s a regular river running down in front of 
your ear. Catch it, quick, or it will fall into your cof- 
fee," cried Bob. 

It was in vain that Mrs. Marvin strove to cheek the 
fun. The sight of their sister’s rebellious curls liter- 
ally soaked and neatly plastered down over her ears, 
was too much for the boys ; so, as most of them had fin- 
ished breakfast, their mother excused them from the 
table. 

‘ ‘ I shall send Jinny to your room to help you dry your 


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135 


hair, Wilhelmina. If the weather were not so warm, it 
would be necessary to wrap you in blankets and keep 
you in bed all day, as you remember we were obliged 
to do when you fell into the rain barrel.’ ’ 

Mary noticed that the mother’s eyes twinkled though 
she seemed very serious indeed. 

“Mary ith cornin’ with me to thee my guinea-pigth, 
aren’t you, Mary?” 

“And she’s going to wide in my doat-tart; muddie 
said so,” piped Dick. 

“Gently, boys, gently,” interrupted their father. 
“The day is long, and it is not yet half-past eight. 
What would you like to do, Mary?” 

“I think I had better write to Uncle, the very first 
thing. ’ ’ 

“It alwayth taketh Willie thuch an awful long time 
to write a letter,” remarked Fred, ruefully. 

“But you will see, Freddie, that it won’t take me long 
at all. I wrote on the train yesterday and mailed it at 
the station here, so Uncle Frank will not expect such a 
long letter today.” 

“You and Dick run off and find Harry. By the time 
you harness up and drive around to the steps, Mary 
will be there waiting for you, ’ ’ said their father. i 1 Come 
into the library, Mary. You will find writing material 
there. When you have finished your letter, Willie will 
be ready to accompany you on a tour of the grounds. ’ ’ 

At dinner that evening, Mary declared, “It will take 
me all tomorrow morning to tell Uncle what I’ve seen 
today. Every one of you has pets of some kind — rab- 
bits, or squirrels, or pigeons, or guinea-pigs, or chick- 
ens, to say nothing of ponies and horses.” 

“She fordot my billy-doat,” said Dick in an ag- 
grieved whisper to his mother. 

“I’m going to write a whole page about my fine ride 
in Dick’s goat-cart,” continued Mary, who had over- 
heard his remark ; and Dick was comforted. 


136 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“You have seen most everything outside, so tomor- 
row I am going to show you our theater and the nur- 
sery and some other nice places in the house,” said 
Wilhelmina. 

The next morning, after writing her long letter, Mary 
followed Wilhelmina to the big attic, which the boys 
had fitted up for private theatricals. All went well 
there. Such, however, was not the case in the nursery, 
the next place visited; and Mrs. Marvin, seated on the 
west porch with her sewing-basket beside her, was sur- 
prised to hear the scurry of feet and the breathless de- 
mand, “0 Jinny, where’s mother, quick!” 

“Here I am, Wilhelmina,” she called, rising so has- 
tily as to upset her work-basket ; for though accustomed 
to being summoned almost daily to bind up cuts and 
bruises, she was really alarmed at the tragic note in Wil- 
helmina ’s voice. 

With a bound, the child came through the long win- 
dow. 

“Go to her quick, mother! she’s gone to her room.” 

‘ ‘ But what is it, dear ? What has happened ? Did she 
fall?” 

“Oh, no, no! she isn’t hurt,” answered the child as 
they passed through the library towards the stairs. “We 
were in the nursery playing with the babies and having 
lots of fun, and all of a sudden she began to cry and 
ran out, and oh ! I didn ’t know what to do for her, so 
I came for you.” 

“Poor, motherless child! I wonder, little daughter, 
if you ever thank God for having spared you an af- 
fliction such as Mary has suffered.” 

“Indeed I do, mother, every single day,” said the lit- 
tle girl, throwing her arms about her mother’s neck, her 
black eyes filled with tears. “It almost chokes me to 
think of such a thing.” 

“There, there, darling. Let me go to her now. Run 
back to the porch and pick up my sewing. What would 
mother ever do without her one wee girlie ! ’ ’ 


Vacation 


137 


By the time she reached Mary’s room, the worst was 
over. She found the little girl where she had flung 
herself on her knees beside the bed, her face hidden on 
her arm. 

“It’s the babies and everything,” said the child sadly, 
“but I wish Wilhelmina hadn’t bothered you.” 

“It is no bother at all, darling, but it would be so 
much better for you if you would come to me when you 
feel like this. I want you to promise to do that, will 
you not?” 

“Oh, sometimes I just long to talk to someone, and I 
can’t to Uncle, because it makes him feel bad, too. So 
if you really wouldn’t mind ” 

“I am only too glad to help you every way I can, 
my dear child, and when you return to school you must 
write me some long letters.” 

“It was all to have been so nice, next year. Uncle 
hasn’t lived in our home, you know, for two years; but 
in the spring, when he knew mother was coming, he 
had the house all fixed up and we were to live there 
again, and I was to go to day-school. And we expected 
to have Wilhelmina to spend all the short holidays with 
us, and now,” choking down a sob, “it can’t ever be.” 

“Yes, yes, you will live there and keep house for 
Uncle Frank; and Wilhelmina shall visit you as often 
as you wish,” said Mrs. Marvin, cheerfully. “Uncle 
Phil and I shall, too, if we are invited.” 

“Indeed you are, right now — the whole family.” 

“Come down on the porch and help me with the 
mending; with three home from school, the basket is 
never empty. I shall have to engage you girls to sew 
on buttons.” 

“We can do more than that. Sister Austin would be 
ashamed of us if we couldn’t darn stockings.” 

They found Wilhelmina seated in her mother’s rocker, 
busily employed with a needle. 

“I thought I’d s ’prise you. Seven buttons,” she 
announced, proudly displaying her work. 


138 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“That is a very agreeable surprise, indeed/ * replied 
her mother, drawing a low chair beside her for Mary, 
while Wilhelmina placed one for herself on the other 
side. “At what hour does the ball game begin?” 

“ Four- thirty, sharp. You, and father, and Mary are 
to have seats in the grand-stand — that’s packing boxes 
with chairs on top.” 

“Don’t you play, Mary?” 

“The boys tried to teach me yesterday, but I’m what 
Fred calls a ‘butter-fingers.’ If they would play with 
a rubber ball, I think I could catch it all right ; but I ’m 
a great big coward when it comes to that hard ball.” 

“Just wait until we begin tennis, mother. Even the 
graduates couldn’t beat Mary there. We put off the 
tournament until Monday on account of the ball game 
today. The boys will open their eyes, then.” 

“How about the ponies?” 

“Uncle taught me to ride, and Phil says we are all 
going somewhere tomorrow evening.” 

Thus they chatted until lunch time, Mrs. Marvin mean- 
while resolving to keep Mary with her as much as pos- 
sible when the child was not engaged in out-door sports. 

Sunday morning found the wagonette at the door, and 
the whole family drove in to Mass. Late in the after- 
noon, Mr. Marvin and the children, with the exception 
of the two babies, mounted their horses and ponies for 
the promised ride. They were, indeed, a merry group 
as they passed down the long drive-way, through the 
gates, and then set out at a brisk canter toward the 
west until they came to the cross-roads where they turned 
northward. Mr. Marvin with Fred on his right and the 
girls on his left, led the way, and as none of the chil- 
dren knew what was in store for them, quite a little 
curiosity and excitement prevailed. 

“Ith we goin’ a long wayth, fawth-ah?” questioned 
Fred. 

“Long enough to give little folks a good appetite for 
supper,” was the uncompromising reply. 


Vacation 


139 


“I know,” cried Joe, “we are going to the old mill.” 

As each in turn tried to guess their destination, their 
father smilingly remarked, “These are all very good 
hints for our next outing.” 

Even the older boys were mystified as they followed 
along the shady roads which, after a time, became un- 
familiar to them. At length, passing through a small 
pine woods, they came out into the open and saw be- 
fore them a tiny farm. Some distance back from the 
road stood a long, low, old-fashioned house. The boys 
were surprised when their father turned in at the gate 
and drew rein at the front steps. Springing from his 
horse, he assisted the girls to alight, striving, mean- 
while, to conceal his amusement at the perplexed faces 
about him. Suddenly, somewhere from the midst of 
the honeysuckle and rose vines which covered the porch, 
an old colored woman appeared. Her spotless calico 
dress, big white apron and turban were in keeping with 
the general neatness of the place. 

“Yo' is welcome, Marse Marvin, yo' an’ yo’n,” she 
exclaimed, courtesying profoundly, “an’ I done got 
ready fo’ yo’ all yeste’day, so’s I culd rest on de Lawd’s 
Day.” 

“That is right, Mammy, and you will find that these 
young folks will do justice to all your good things. ’ ’ 

After all had been introduced, they followed her into 
the house. 

“Now,” said Mr. Marvin, with a wave of his hand 
towards the feast spread before them, “don't say that 
1 cannot keep a secret.” 

“But where are we, father?” and “Who is she?” 
were among the many questions with which he was be- 
sieged when the old woman had disappeared into the 
kitchen. 

“We are nearly twelve miles northwest of home, and 
this little farm belongs to Uncle Ephraim, whom I have 
known for years. That old woman is his wife.” 


140 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“But why didn’t we ever come here before, father?” 
inquired Harry. 

“There is nothing particularly interesting about this 
place, and these old colored folks are so like some of 
those on our own plantation, that it never occurred to 
me that you would care to visit them. But Friday, be- 
ing in this neighborhood, I met old Mammy, and noth- 
ing would satisfy her but that I should bring you all 
to see Uncle Ephraim.” 

“Do they live here all alone?” 

“They have two sons who look after the farm for 
them. The old man is quite blind now and unable to 
work. ’ ’ 

When Mammy reentered the room, Mr. Marvin ob- 
served, “The appearance of the table should be a great 
compliment to your cooking, Mammy. They have not 
left enough to feed the crows.” 

“Dey is powahful good eatahs, sho’ nuf, but dat’s 
what it’s dar fo’; an’ now ma ole man am out’n de 
porch, an’ wants fo’ to see yo’ all afore yo’ goes home.” 

Out trooped the merry party to be presented to Uncle 
Ephraim. 

“Selwyn, sah? Yo’ say Selwyn ? Any kin to de 
Virginny Selwyns?” demanded the old darkey when 
Mary’s name was mentioned. 

“Yes, indeed, her father was Robert Selwyn, of Cedar 
Ridge. ’ ’ 

“Not ma Massa Rob! Yo’ doan tell me! De bestest 
frien’ dis heah poah ole niggah eber had. Why, sah! 
ef it warn’t fo’ him, I wouldn’t hab nuffin in dis world.” 

* ‘ How is that, Uncle Ephraim ? I was not aware that 
you had ever lived in Virginia, and was under the im- 
pression that old Mr. Clayton gave you this place just 
before he died. ’ ’ The next moment Mr. Marvin regretted 
his question, for he feared the effect any allusion to her 
father might produce on Mary. But the little girl had 
slipped in nearer to the old man’s chair and was eagerly 
waiting to hear his story. 


Vacation 


141 


“Wal, sah, yo’ is part right an’ part wrong. Marse 
Clayton sartinly done gibbed me dis heah propahty ’foah 
he died, but some ob his kin turned up when he war 
gone, an’ run me clar out’n heah wifout ’lowin’ me to 
’spress ma ’pinion on de mattah. So tings went fum 
bad to wus, an’ at last’ I jes’ natchally wandahed ober 
to’d Virginny; an’ one blazin’ hot day, I was atrampin’ 
along a country road, same as heahabouts, an’ I kem to 
de gates ob what looked lak a big park. On de lawn in- 
side, dey war a boy ob sixteen wif his brudder an’ sistah, 
bof youngah ’n him, an’ while I war alooking’ in at 
dem, de brudder up an’ f rowed a stone at me. Den de 
big fellah, dat war Massa Rob, he done shout to his 
brudder to quit dat, an’ he kem to de gates, an’ when he 
fcun’ I war alookin’ fo’ work, he let me in an’ tuk me 
up to de house. His pa, ole Marse Selwyn, done raised 
a powahful rumpus an ’dared dey was too many niggahs 
round de place already, but Massa Rob done sayed dat 
he wanted me fo’ to dribe his muddah ca’ful-like, kase 
she war an invalid. But jes’ de same, ole Marse an’ 
Missy Bertha alwuz ’peared to hab it in fo’ dis heah 
niggah, an’ aftah de Missus died an’ Massa Rob done 
went to college, I wuz fo’ gwine somewhars, too, but 
Massa Rob made me promise to stay round de ole place 
till he done got a lawyer fellah to git back ma li’l farm 
again. An’ he done got it back fum dem rascalions, an’ 
I ’se libbed heah in peace, eber since, tanks to Massa Rob. 
I was de only niggah on de ole place when he done 
brought his bride home; fo’ Missy Bertha, she war an 
awful one sho’ nuf, ordahed dem all away fo’ de day, 
an ’ she done bamboozled ole Marse into gwine too. Massa 
Alfred war in Europe den, dey sayed.” 

Fearing the old man was about to tread on dangerous 
ground, Mr. Marvin rose hastily, exclaiming, “Yonder is 
the moon, children. We must make a start, or mother 
will be anxious.” 

Amid a chorus of farewells and promises to come 
again, the little party rode away, but not before Mary, 
who lingered a moment on the porch, had pressed the 


142 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


horny old hand and thanked Uncle Ephraim for his 
loyalty to her father. 

The homeward ride in the moonlight was quite a nov- 
elty to the younger children. The lateness of the hour 
proved too much for Fred, and when he began to yawn 
and blink, his father lifted him from his pony and placed 
the little fellow before him on his own horse; 1 1 Just in 
time to save a fall,” he remarked to Phil, tossing him 
the pony's bridle. 

As they entered their own gates, Harry proposed sing- 
ing “Home, Sweet Home.'' Like a flash, Wilhelmina 
swung around in her saddle, waving her hand in vehe- 
ment protest and pointing to Mary, who was busy con- 
versing with Mr. Marvin. Dropping back among the boys, 
their sister promptly vetoed anything that might affect 
their little guest. Finally, “Keep in de Middle ob de 
Road” was chosen as least calculated to arouse sad 
thoughts. 

Mrs. Marvin, waiting on the veranda, heard the happy 
voices, and as the party appeared around the bend in 
the drive, she too, joined in the humorous refrain. 

Early the following morning, the tournament began. 
By her skill on the tennis-court, Mary more than re- 
gained all she had lost by her timidity in the ball-field. 
In the beginning, the older boys, fearing to discourage 
their little guest, played somewhat carelessly, but it was 
not long before even Phil saw that she was a rival not 
to be despised. As Harry expressed it at lunch that 
day, “Mary seems to be everywhere at once and nobody 
can catch her napping. ' ' 

“She ith like a grath-hopper, 9 ' declared Fred. “She 
jumpth an' runth an' skipth an' never misseth a ball.” 

Mary laughed gaily at these criticisms. 

“Uncle enjoys tennis so much and he plays splendidly, 
so he taught me lots of little tricks that make up for my 
lack of muscle. I couldn't do much, though, with a 
heavy racket.” 

“Do you mean to say,” inquired Mr. Marvin “that 


Vacation 


143 


you play with your uncle ? During our time, he was the 
best tennis player at college.” 

“Yes, Uncle Phil, we have had some fine games to- 
gether, and I’ve beaten him sometimes, too.” 

“I shall have to try a bout with you myself, little 
lady.” 

“You’ll never beat father, Mary,” declared Bob, 
proudly. “He can white-wash everyone around here, 
left-handed.” 

“Not so fast, young man,” interrupted his father. “I 
shall wait until the tournament is over ; in the meantime 
it may be well for me to practice up a bit. ’ ’ 

At last the contest was ended and the prize, a hand- 
some, silver-mounted riding-whip, was unanimously 
awarded to Mary. 

“When will you play your game, father?” 

“How will tomorrow morning suit you, Mary, or 
would you prefer to rest a day or two?” asked Mr. 
Marvin. 

“I’ll be rested by morning, Unde Phil, but it seems 
out of place for me to play with you,” she replied, a 
little shyly. “Uncle Frank is the only big person I’ve 
ever played with.” 

“Oh, I must get my hand in before he arrives,” said 
Mr. Marvin reassuringly, “and since you can beat him 
occasionally, I shall feel better prepared if I can win a 
few games from you.” 

In the morning, Mary again donned her pretty white 
flannel suit, and at nine o’clock the entire family and 
some of the servants assembled under the trees which 
bordered the court, to witness the game between “Massa 
an’ li’l Missy.” 

“Phil had better call up the ambulance,” suggested 
Bob. 

“WTiy, pray?” demanded his eldest brother. 

“To carry her off the field after father gets through 
with her,” answered Bob, scornfully. 


144 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Wait!” was Phil’s reply. 

“They’re goin’ to begin,” announced Frank. The 
merry chatter subsided and all eyes were fixed on the 
contestants. 

“It ’minds me ob David an’ Goliah,” declared Sam, 
“but I reckon dis time David am agwine ter git de wust 
ob it.” 

“I doan know,” was the rejoinder, “li’l Missy am 
powahful pert wif dat racket, so she am.” 

Like his sons, Mr. Marvin thought he would not dis- 
courage the little girl ; but like them, too, he soon found 
himself hard pushed to defend his own against the skill- 
ful attacks of his young adversary. The first game was 
nearly finished when Mary, who was ahead, called for 
time, declaring, “I think this game oughtn’t to be 
counted. We’ve just been getting acquainted. Let us 
begin another in earnest.” 

To this proposal all agreed, and the players settled 
down to real work. Mr. Marvin was considered by the 
surrounding country, an authority on tennis, but his 
most skillful strokes were met and returned in a man- 
ner he seldom expected, so that he was kept very busy 
indeed, while Mary fluttered about like a dainty white 
butterfly, seeming always to alight on a spot just before 
the ball reached it. At length “deuce” was called, fol- 
lowed by “advantage” for Mr. Marvin, then for Mary, 
and so on, until Harry whispered to Phil, “Do you see 
what she’s up to? She’s got the idea that it wouldn’t 
be good manners to beat father, so she’s going to keep 
this going until he calls a halt.” 

“I believe you’re right. I’ve been trying to figure it 
out, but couldn’t get at the bottom of it. Why! she has 
let the grandest chances slip. She could have broken 
“deuce” three times in the last five minutes. I believe 
J’ll give father a hint.” 

“Don’t you do it. Let her have her way. She’s a 
mighty nice little thing.” 

“I wish I knew a few of her tricks with the racket.” 


Vacation 


145 


* ‘ I guess she would teach them to us. I ’ll ask her. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Marvin, too, began to suspect the cause of the long 

game, and as the heat was becoming intense, she insisted 
that it should be discontinued. 

“What yo’ say now ’bout David?” demanded Wash 
of Sam, as the colored folk returned to their duties. 

* ‘ I say dey am on moah f rien ’ly terms dan dey ances- 
tahs,” laughed Sam, with a nod in the direction of the 
house towards which Mr. Marvin was conducting Mary, 
with all the big and little Marvins trooping after. 

At the lunch-table, Harry broached the subject of ten- 
nis lessons, and Mary, delighted to be of use, joyfully 
consented to teach the boys all she knew of the game. 
During the meal, Bob was very quiet, and towards even- 
ing, when the twins were “cleaned up,” the following 
argument took place on the lowest of the front steps: 

“Aw! father wasn’t half playing. He could have 
beaten her easily.” 

“I don’t know about that,” answered Frank, “I 
never saw him play so hard before, and I heard Phil and 
Harry whispering about it, and they seemed to think 
Mary just didn’t want to beat him.” 

“Huh! ’cause she couldn’t. She’s a fraid-cat any- 
way,” continued Bob, savagely digging a hole in the 
gravel with his heel. “She’s ascared of a base-ball, and 
she can’t ride standing up like Willie, anyhow.” 

“I s’pose she never had any practice. But I think 
she’s awful niee. That day I hurt my foot she stayed 
on the porch and read to me all morning, even though 
Willie was teasing and teasing her to go play.” 

Mr. Marvin, who in the midst of the conversation had 
established himself on the porch to read the paper, was 
much amused by what he heard and finally called the 
two little boys to his side. 

“Now, my lads, what is it all about?” 

“Oh, he’s always sticking up for Mary, and every- 
body’s always talking about her wonderful tennis play- 
ing, ’ ’ began Bob. 


146 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“So she is a wonderful tennis-player my boy, and I 
am glad to hear that Frank is ‘sticking up’ for our little 
guest.” 

“But — but ” said Bob, fidgeting from one foot to 

the other, “she didn’t beat you anyhow.” 

“Oh, that’s the trouble,’*’ laughed his father. “Well, 
neither did I beat her. Why don’t you want her to 
beat me?” he inquired, watching the child intently. 

“Cause — cause I want you to be the biggest and best 
in everything,” blurted out Bob. 

“You may console yourself as to the first point, my 
boy, for in all my travels I have never met anyone quite 
as tall as I am. And for the second, — my little folks 
will have to ask the good God to give me the grace nec- 
essary to be the best in honesty, charity, and all other 
virtues. As for Mary’s being cowardly, — I think she is 
very brave for a little girl who has never before had boy 
companions. ’ ’ 

“Hasn’t she any brothers?” 

‘ ‘ Her brothers died when they were babies ; her father, 
two years ago ; her mother and little sisters, in June ; she 
has no one left but Uncle Frank and her aunt at the 
Convent.” 

As Mr. Marvin proceeded, two pairs of black eyes 
grew rounder and rounder. 

‘ ‘ Whew ! that ’s hard ! ’ ’ 

“Maybe that’s why she looks sometimes like she’d 
been crying. I thought it was ’cause she got scared of 
something. ’ ’ 

“Mother and I would feel very bad if any of our little 
ones were unkind to her, or said anything to add to her 
sorrow.” 

“I guess you needn’t be afraid of us two, father,” 
Bob hastened to say. “I didn’t know it was like that. 
She can be the best in everything if she wants to, just 
so it will make her happy again.” 

“Let’s get Sam to saddle the ponies. We’ll find her 


Vacation 


147 


and Willie and have races down to the gate,” suggested 
Frank, and the two scampered off, at peace with the 
whole world. 

Mr. Marvin sat with his paper on his knee reflecting 
on the change the Doctor would find in his niece; for 
though the child still had her lonely spells, she had kept 
her promise to go to his wife for the comfort and con- 
solation she so sorely needed, and that good lady, with 
a mother’s watchfulness and tact, was ever on the alert 
to provide some new amusement or employment for the 
two little girls. 

Two weeks of intense heat followed the great tennis 
game. One sultry afternoon, when the entire family 
was enjoying the usual siesta, Mary slipped down to 
the library, where she selected an interesting book and 
then settled herself in a big chair on the east porch. So 
interested did she become in her story, that she did not 
observe the tall figure stretched out in the hammock at 
the far end of the porch, nor did she hear Mr. Marvin 
arise and tiptoe around the comer of the house. A few 
moments later she was surprised to see him drive up to 
the steps in the runabout. 

“May I have the pleasure of your company, my dear?” 

“0 yes, Uncle Phil, there’s nothing I’d like better 
than a drive this hot afternoon. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There is a little breeze springing up which will make 
it all the more pleasant. Never mind your hat. Willie’s 
parasol is here under the seat if you need it, but the 
roads in the direction we are going are quite shady. I 
left word with Jinny to tell mother where we have 
gone.” 

Once on the main road, he turned the horse’s head 
eastward. 

“We are going a new way today, aren’t we?” asked 
Mary. “I’ve always been curious to know what lies 
beyond that pine-forest.” 

“Well, your curiosity is about to be satisfied. It is 
a long drive through those woods, but we have the after- 


148 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


noon before us, and I can think of no cooler place on a 
warm day.” 

After driving some distance, the road narrowed sud- 
denly, then plunged into the dense forest before them, 
where it was carpeted so thickly with pine needles that 
the sound of Nell’s hoofs could not be heard. Mary 
threw back her head and sniffed the delicious fragrance. 

i 1 On our way back we shall stop to gather some needles 
for a pillow, which you can keep in your room to remind 
you of your visit among us. ’ ’ 

“I’d like to have a pine pillow, but not to remind me 
of you all. I shan’t need anything to do that.” 

“I think Uncle Frank will see a great improvement in 
you. Phil must weigh you to see how much you have 
gained.” 

“I’m glad I look better. Uncle will be so pleased,” 
said the child, contentedly. “I know I feel better. I 
never get so very tired any more. But these woods must 
be miles and miles.” 

“They are very large, and this road winds in and out, 
so in that way the distance to the other side is increased. 
But we shall soon be out in the open. ’ ’ 

“It seems as if we are going a little higher all the 
time ; what is that dull, booming sound ? ’ ’ 

“That is my surprise for you. Have patience a little 
longer.” 

Mary waited eagerly. A few moments later the road 
made a sudden turn and they were out of the woods. 
Mr. Marvin drew rein on top of a high bluff overlooking 
a long stretch of sandy beach upon which the great 
ocean was flinging its huge breakers. For some little 
time he sat silent, drinking in the beauty of his favorite 
scene ; then remembering that he was not alone, he turned 
to see what effect it had produced on the little girl at 
his side. To his amazement, he beheld her with her face 
buried in her hands. 

“My dear child, are you ill?” 

“Oh, go some other way, please! please!” 


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149 


Suddenly realizing what the trouble was, he swiftly 
turned the horse about and soon regained the shelter of 
the woods. 

“My poor little girl, you must pardon my thought- 
lessness. ’ ’ 

“Indeed, I ought to ask your pardon after all the 
trouble you have taken to bring me here,” she replied, 
making a great effort to control her voice. ‘ ‘ But I really 
couldn’t help it — it was so unexpected and made me 
think of everything at once. Oh! sometimes I just 
can’t believe it’s true. Don’t you think, Uncle Phil,” 
turning imploringly to him, “that there may have been 
some terrible mistake?” 

“I wish I could think so, Mary, but, from what your 
uncle told me, I know that all that was within human 
power was done at the time. Even if one of the boats 
were missing, which is not the case, news of it would 
certainly have reached New York before this. But 
hark!” as an ominous rumble warned him of the near 
approach of a storm. “We shall have to run for it. 
Ten miles from home and no shelter nearer than our 
own lodge. I fear we shall get a ducking. Take the lines 
for a few moments — no danger of meeting any vehicle 
here — I shall see if there is anything under the seat to 
protect you from the rain. Here is the parasol — it may 
help some — and an old rain coat of Phil’s. Slip this on. 
It is not the latest cut, to be sure. The trees are so 
thick that we shall not suffer until we get out on the 
big road.” 

“But you have nothing for yourself.” 

“I am accustomed to an occasional drenching. Now, 
hold on tight, for when Nell gets started, she goes like 
the wind.” He touched the horse lightly with the whip, 
and with her pretty head far forward and her ears 
flattened back, she sped through the rapidly darkening 
forest. 

“Why not stay in the woods until it is over?” asked 
Mary, after a long silence. 


150 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


1 1 Too much danger from the lightning, ’ ’ was the brief 
response, for Mr. Marvin was busy keeping a sharp look- 
out on the narrow road ahead. “Hold fast! we are 
coming to a turn,” he exclaimed, “and when Nell is 
going at this rate, she stops for nothing. ’ 9 

They had gone but a few yards farther when they 
were startled by a blinding flash of lightning, followed 
by the crashing of a tree across the road behind them. 

“That was a narrow escape, but we shall soon be out 
of this. Yonder is the road.” 

Mary looked ahead through the opening between the 
trees and saw the broad white road across which the 
rain was being driven in sheets. Mr. Marvin was obliged 
to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the 
wind. 

“Pull your collar up high and open the parasol. Hold 
it far down in front of your face and brace the handle 
against the back of the seat. No, — don’t mind me. I’m 
all right.” 

Mary tried to obey his directions, but they were 
scarcely out of the forest when a gust of wind seized the 
parasol, turning it inside out and wresting it from her 
grasp. As she saw it carried up into a tree, she uttered 
a cry of dismay. 

“Never mind it. She has a new one, so she will not 
care,” cried Mr. Marvin. 

On and on dashed Nell over the smooth road. 

“Slip your hand into my pocket and see if you can 
find a whistle there. — That’s it. Now, when we get to 
the stone wall ahead, blow that as hard as you can until 
I tell you to stop.” 

The little girl did as she was told, and soon saw, as if 
in answer to the shrill blasts, a small flag fluttering 
above the trees. 

“All right. Wash has heard us and will have the 
gates open so we shall have no delay there. Be ready for 
the next turn. It will be a sharp one. ’ ’ 

Through the gates they swept and up the drive. As 


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151 


they neared the porch, they saw Phil and Sam in great 
rain-coats, awaiting them. Frightened little faces were 
pressed against the window panes and Mrs. Marvin was 
at the door. Nell halted with an abruptness that almost 
threw Mary from the seat, and Mr. Marvin, tossing the 
lines to Sam, sprang to the ground, caught her in his 
strong arms and carried her into the house. 

4 4 Safe and sound, thank God, but pretty wet, eh ? ’ ’ he 
cried, cheerily. 

4 4 Only my hair, but that will soon dry, ’ ’ she responded, 
turning to thank Wilhelmina and Harry who had helped 
her off with the rain-coat. As she did so she heard Mr. 
Marvin say in a low tone to his wife, 4 4 The most un- 
fortunate trip I ever planned. First the sea and then 
this storm. It has been enough to undo all the good 
work of the past weeks. ’ ’ What Mrs, Marvin answered, 
she did not hear ; but she made up her mind that, as far 
as lay in her power, no ill effects of the day should be 
seen. So she began gaily to relate the parasol episode, 
while Wilhelmina helped her wring the water from her 
hair, until Mrs. Marvin interrupted her with, 4 4 We must 
get you to bed and warm you up a little. ’ ? 

4 4 Oh, I’m quite warm now. It was only towards the 
last that it began to get chilly. If I wouldn’t be in Aunt 
Chloe ’s way, I could dry my hair nicely out by the range 
and be ready for dinner.” 

But to this plan the good lady would not listen, and 
insisted that her husband, too, should be properly cared 
for. 

4 4 Very well,” said the latter with a laugh, 4 4 it is not 
often I have an opportunity of being coddled, so I shall 
not wait to be told twice. You may as well give in grace- 
fully, Mary,” he called back from the gallery. 4 4 Mother 
will have her way in the end, and it is usually the best 
way, as I have reason to know. ’ ’ 

4 4 Phil, go with father and get him anything he needs. 
Wilhelmina may tell Lyda that they are home and badly 
in need of something hot to drink. Then come upstairs 
and set your little tea-table in Mary’s room, and later 


152 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


on you two may have supper together. Harry, will you 
amuse these little folks for awhile ? I shall be down in 
time for dinner. Now, my dear child,” to Mary, “you 
and I shall go upstairs. You are trembling!” 

“I’m beginning to feel all shivery and queer, but I’ll 
be all right soon. My dress is soaked from my hair. ’ ’ 

“We shall soon remedy that,” said Mrs. Marvin, who, 
leaving Mary in her own room, disappeared into Wil- 
helmina’s, returning immediately with a rubber cap. 
“Wilhelmina wears this when she goes swimming. We 
shall bundle your hair into it, and after you are in bed, 
I shall move this little electric heater close to you; be- 
tween it and a brisk rubbing, we shall have your hair 
dried in no time. Here is Lyda with a big bowl of pip- 
ing hot milk. Drink every bit of it and you will feel 
better. It will help you to sleep, too. Lyda, if you will 
please bring the tea-table from the next room, Wilhelmina 
will have it ready for that nice little supper Aunt Chloe 
is going to send up here. ’ ’ 

While Mrs. Marvin endeavored to make Mary com- 
fortable, her little daughter flitted to and fro, bringing 
from her room the various articles of a dainty tea-set. 

“I so seldom use this, that it seems quite an event 
tonight,” she declared. Disappearing into her room 
again, she did not return until Lyda entered, bearing a 
large tray. In the meantime she had changed her dress 
and now appeared in the full costume of a trained nurse. 
“I wore it in a play,” she explained, “but I never ex- 
pected to have such a grand chance as this to show it off. 
Mother, Mary will get another chill if she puts her arms 
out from under those blankets, won’t she? So I must 
feed her. No objections!” as Mary attempted to remon- 
strate. “ The patient must obey the nurse. There’s the 
dinner gong, mother. We shall get along beautifully.” 

Mrs. Marvin left them, stopping on the way to the 
dining-room to speak to her husband. If he required 
anything beyond her statement that Mary was in good 
spirits, the merry peals of laughter that issued from the 


Vacation 


153 


end room, fully assured him that the effects of the drive 
were not as serious as he had feared. 

The violence of the storm had abated, but the rain 
continued to fall in a soft steady pour, not only during 
the night, but for the two following days. The children 
tried to amuse themselves as best they could with indoor 
games and books, until Harry suggested that it was a 
fine time to practice a play. 

Let ’s have ‘ Cinderella ’,” proposed Wilhelmina. 
‘ ‘ Mary would make a lovely one. ’ 9 

“She ought to be the fairy god-mother, ’ * said Frank. 

“There are too many female characters in that play. 
You girls would have to be two or three people at once,” 
declared Phil. 

“ ‘ Tabby’s Table-cloth 9 then,” insisted his sister. 

“Not much!” cried Joe. “You don’t catch any of us 
being Hessians and Britishers, and they ’re the only men 
in that play.” 

“Why not get up some tableaux?” suggested their 
mother. “They do not require as much practice as a 
play, and your father had a letter today saying that 
Uncle Frank will be down next week.” 

A shout of applause greeted this information, and 
Mary’s face beamed with delight at this manifestation 
of affection for her uncle. 

“Let’s have one tableau of the Guardian Angel, with 
Mary for the angel and Dick for the little child picking 
the flowers, like in the picture,” cried Wilhelmina. 

“But why should I be the angel or the fairy god- 
mother?” asked Mary, growing embarrassed at so much 
attention. “You can act ever so much better than I 
can.” 

‘ ‘ Did you ever see an angel or a fairy with such a look- 
ing head as mine?” demanded Wilhelmina. 

After lunch, they repaired to the library to decide on 
the subjects of the tableaux; when all were satisfied, a 
trip was made to the big trunk in the attic, and appro- 
priate costumes were selected. Then some practising 


154 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


was done, and when the dinner gong sounded, all agreed 
that it had been the shortest rainy day they had ever 
spent, Wilhelmina declaring that she wouldn’t mind if 
it rained for a month ; nevertheless, she showed signs of 
rejoicing with the others when the sun again appeared ; 

‘ 4 because,” as she was careful to explain, “it doesn’t 
seem quite natural to be cooped up in the house in 
August.” The tennis lessons and other outdoor sports 
were resumed, and the principal topic of conversation 
at all meals was, “What we shall do while Uncle Frank 
is here.” 

“Will you decorate the wagonette, as you did when 
we came?” inquired Mary, a few days before his ar- 
rival. 

‘ ‘ Suppose we do, ’ ’ said Harry. “He will think it 
jolly fun.” 

Little did anyone suspect the event which so nearly 
brought the happy vacation to a tragic close. 

The following morning, after Mr. Marvin and Phil 
had gone to the fields to superintend the work there, and 
the boys had scattered in various directions, Wilhelmina 
and Mary obtained permission to take the baby to the 
clover field, where a late crop was in full bloom. Mrs. 
Marvin, from her usual place on the porch with her 
work-basket beside her, called after them, “Be sure that 
none of the animals are in the field.” Arriving there, 
the little girls satisfied themselves that all was safe, and 
entering by the gate on the east side, they wheeled the 
baby-buggy far into the center of the field where the 
blossoms were larger. Taking Jack out, they placed him 
on the ground beside them, then busied themselves mak- 
ing chains. Wilhelmina had brought her parasol, which 
was of a deep rose color, and as the sun soon proved too 
hot, she raised it and proceeded to fasten it to the side 
of the buggy. An angry bellow from the south side of 
the field caused the little girls to spring to their feet. 
With cries of terror and dismay, Mary caught up the 
baby, Wilhelmina the parasol, and both started for the 
gate with old Jef, the bull, in hot pursuit. 


Vacation 


155 


“He must have been lying down in that high grass,” 
wailed Wilhelmina. 

Glancing over her shoulder, Mary realized that they 
could never reach the gate in time. 

“ Throw away your parasol and take Jack!” she cried. 
“Now run for all you’re worth, and when you get out 
close the gate tight. Don’t mind!” as Wilhelmina 
paused to question. “Run!” 

Catching up the gay parasol, she waved it about her 
head the better to attract Jef’s attention, then made 
for the high fence on the north. With a savage roar, 
he followed. As she neared the fence, she looked hur- 
riedly around, saw that Wilhelmina and the baby were 
safe and the gate closed. All her effort now must be to 
save herself. She was a swift runner and had a good 
start of the bull, but she realized that Jef was rapidly 
gaining on her. Running along close to the fence, she 
kept a sharp lookout for a space wide enough to allow 
her to roll under the bars; for she well knew that the 
great animal would be upon her before she could climb 
to the top. But the fence was well built and left no 
loop-hole of escape. On and on she ran, many thoughts 
passing through the little brain. “Uncle will say I was 
right to do it. — They are safe, anyway, and I’m so glad. 
Wilhelmina is the only little girl, and then the baby — 
it would be terrible for Uncle Phil and Aunt Etta if 
they were killed. — Uncle and Aunt Mary will miss me, 
too, but I’m not their very own like Wilhelmina and 

Jack. — Mother would say it was right, too ” she 

gulped down a sob and dashed the tears from her eyes. 
“Oh! I can’t run much farther. — He’ll get me if some- 
one doesn’t come soon! — Guess I’d — better — make — an 
act — of — Contrition.” She stumbled on, half -blindly, 
her breath coming in little gasps. 

Meanwhile, Wilhelmina, screaming at the top of her 
voice, hastened on as fast as her heavy burden per- 
mitted. The first ones she met were the twins. 

“Get mother and father, quick! get anybody! run! 
Jef’s after Mary! Oh, I’m afraid he’s got her by to 


156 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


time!” and thoroughly exhausted, the child sank to the 
ground still clasping the precious baby in her arms. 

The boys, shouting wildly, darted away — Bob towards 
the cotton field, Frank in the direction of the house, 
some distance from which he met his mother who had 
heard the savage bellowing of the bull and the screams 
of the children and was hurrying to the clover field. He 
assured her that his sister and the baby were safe, but 
that Mary was being eaten by J ef . 

‘ ‘ Find Jinny and tell her to come after baby, and tell 
Lyda to bring me what she knows I need from the medi- 
cine cabinet. Be quick!” and she ran swiftly on. 

Mr. Marvin, Phil, and the colored men, far down in 
the west cotton field, also heard the bull ’s first indication 
of wrath, and seizing the nearest farm implements, all 
ran in the direction of the sounds. 

“If anyone is in danger, kill Jef at once!” shouted 
Mr. Marvin. 

‘ ‘Yonder goes Willy ! She ’s carrying something ! ” ex- 
claimed Phil. 

“It's Jack. Where is Mary? God grant that she, at 
least, is safe,” said his father. “Mose! run around to 
the east end and close the gate ! ’ 9 

Through fields and over fences they went, reaching 
the cloverfield far sooner than it takes to relate; and 
Mary, sobbing out the words of the Act of Contrition, 
was made aware of their approach by the shout, ‘ ‘ Throw 
the parasol to your left and run to the right. ’ ’ 

She obeyed mechanically and stumbled blindly in the 
direction whence the deep voice proceeded. She did not 
see Phil leap down from the fence, nor Mr. Marvin 
astride the top rail, nor the row of faces, ashen with 
terror, peering through the bars; but she felt herself 
tossed into the air, and her only thought was that bulls 
were much gentler than she had supposed. Instead of 
falling, however, she was conscious of being caught by 
strong arms and carefully lowered until she was laid on 
the grass; then, while someone threw water in her face, 


Vacation 


157 


she heard a voice saying, “I declah! ef she ain’t de 
pluckiest! Catch dis yeah niggah arunnin’ befoah a 
mad bull, awavin’ ob a red umbrellah ! No sah ! ” 

“Shet yo’ mouf, Abe! De poah chile am daid, fo’ 
sho ! 9 ’ and Mary, though she was so very, very tired, felt 
that she must open her eyes to let them know that such 
was not the case. 

‘ ‘ Dar now ! She ain ’t daid, nohow ! Glory hallelujah ! ’ ’ 
cried Abe, at the same time pushing the darkies aside to 
make room for Mrs. Marvin, who, pale and breathless, 
arrived just in time to hear the reassuring shout. Kneel- 
ing beside the prostrate child, she proceeded to use the 
remedies brought by Lyda. At a sign from Mr. Marvin 
the crowd of darkies dispersed, Phil following to tell 
them that work would be suspended for the remainder 
of the day. By this time the rest of the boys had joined 
the group. 

4 ‘Where is Willie?” asked her father. 

“She ith up at the houth, cryin’ her eyth out cauth 
she thinkth Mary ith 99 

“Run up quickly and tell her she isn’t,” interrupted 
Harry. 

“You are feeling a little better now, are you not?” 
Mrs. Marvin inquired, leaning over Mary. 

“Just tired — that’s — all.” 

Mr. Marvin lifted her from the ground saying cheerily, 
‘ ‘ I think she will be more comfortable in her own bed. ’ ’ 

“Oh — I am sure — I can walk.” 

“But I prefer the honor of carrying you, and as I am 
the bigger man, you will have to let me have my way.” 

Phil walked beside his father, using his big straw hat 
to shield Mary’s head from the blazing sun. After them 
came Mrs. Marvin surrounded by the boys, each anxious 
to tell what he knew. 

“I gueth she ith thort of an angel, don’t you think 
tho’ mothah?” inquired Fred, who had once more 
joined the party. 


158 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“I know that she is a very brave little girl, and that 
her guardian angel took good care of her, ’ ’ responded 
his mother. 

“Who would ever think that an ordinary girl could 
run like that,” said Bob. 

“I think it’s about time you fellows saw that she isn’t. 
an ordinary girl,” blurted Harry. 

“Well then she’s extree ordinary,” suggested Frank. 

“You’ve said it right, this time,” responded his 
brother. 

“I don’t think she’s real at all. She’s one of those 
‘sperriks’ that old Abe tells about,” said Joe. 

“Aw, she ain’t either. She’s as real as you are, and 
a lot braver, too,” declared Harry, indignantly. 

“She squealed when she saw a mouse in the barn yes- 
terday,” objected Joe, dubiously. 

“And you squealed when I put a wet wash-rag in your 
bed. You thought it was a rat.” At which allusion 
Joe hung his head until Mrs. Marvin came to the rescue. 

“Well, my boys, however much we may differ in opin- 
ion, I am sure we will all agree that Mary has today 
proved herself very brave indeed, and that, had we been 
in her place, we might not have displayed such heroism.” 

“That’s it, mother, she’s a hero-ess!” cried Bob, de- 
lighted to find a suitable epithet. 

“And,” continued his mother, “I hope we all realize 
the immense debt of gratitude we owe to this little girl, 
who risked her life to save Wilhelmina’s and baby’s. It 
is a debt we can never, never pay. ’ ’ She was obliged to 
pause to overcome her emotion at the thought of how 
different all would have been but for Mary’s devotion. 
Later on, when she had put the little girl to bed and 
stooped to kiss the pale forehead, her grateful tears fell 
on the white face as she reflected that, but for this frail 
child, her own darlings would then be lying paler and 
colder in the adjoining room. The big blue eyes opened 
and the little arms clasped themselves tightly around 
her neck. 


Vacation 


159 


“You are so good to me,” she murmured, “and I’m 
always giving you so much trouble. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Trouble ! ’ ’ exclaimed Mrs. Marvin, with a great show 
of indignation, intended to conceal her real feelings. 
* ‘ Trouble, indeed ! Father and I are only waiting until 
you are better to tell you how we feel about what you 
have done for us.” 

“Don’t, please. I think I was very silly not to throw 
that parasol away after I saw they were safe. But I 
never think of the right thing until it’s too late.” 

‘ 1 How many of us do, dear. But if we try to do what 
we think is right at the time, we should not worry after- 
wards. Only for your own sake, I heartily wish you 
had let Jef have his prize sooner. You would have been 
spared much of the fright and fatigue. But come now, 
try to think of all the good times we shall have while 
Uncle Frank is here. The poor man will not have time 
to breathe.” 

She drew a low chair beside the bed and sat crooning 
the old southern lullaby s until Mary fell asleep. But the 
child tossed restlessly, muttering incoherently and at 
times crying out in terror, so that when Mr. Marvin en- 
tered on tiptoe to see how things were progressing, his 
wife suggested that it would be well to send for the 
doctor. 

“Bless your heart! I had Phil ’phone for him while 
you were working with her down yonder. Doctor Black- 
well ought to be here any moment, but we must not 
frighten the child.” 

“I shall tell her that he is an old friend of her uncle’s, 
which is perfectly true.” 

“There are the wheels on the drive, now.” 

The old doctor shook his head gravely when he heard 
the story and saw Mary’s condition, for the restlessness 
had ceased, and she lay motionless as if perfectly ex- 
hausted. 

“I am glad Doctor Carlton will be here soon. He 
understands her so thoroughly, that he will know better 


160 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


than I what to advise. * However, I brought these reme- 
dies with me, for Phil told me what he knew of the case. 
Keep her quiet, absolutely quiet, and the more sleep she 
gets the better.” 

He found the anxious children awaiting him on the 
porch. 

“May I go up awhile, Doctor? asked Wilhelmina. “I 
won’t speak a word, honestly. But she saved me and 
I want to see her,” and the black eyes, brimming with 
tears, looked beseechingly into his. 

“Tut, tut !” said the old man kindly, “who ever heard 
of two women being together for two minutes without 
saying a word. Here Phil, I appoint you my intern. 
See that Willie takes one of these powders every two 
hours, and be sure you get a long siesta, miss, this after- 
noon. Now, where’s that Jack? It’s a wonder there is 
anything left of you after the shaking up you had this 
morning,” he said to the chubby baby, whose kicking 
and crowing soon convinced the doctor that he, at least, 
had not been at all affected by the excitement. 

“I’s dot a drefful tof, Doctor,” spoke up Dick. “Want 
to hear me?” 

“I’m sorry, but I haven ’t time to wait today, Richard. 
Take one of these every half hour, ’ ’ said the old gentle- 
man, slipping some hoarhound drops into the dirty little 
palm. “Good-by children, and try to be quiet for the 
sake of the little girl to whom you owe so much. ’ ’ 

How they tiptoed about the house and whispered and 
made signs, for the rest of the day. Harry muffled the 
’phone and the dinner gong; Joe put the mocking-birds 
and canaries in a dark room for fear their singing would 
disturb the little sufferer. 

“It seems like there’s going’ to be a funeral or some- 
thin’,” Bob confided to Frank. 

“Poor father looks so worried,” said Phil to Harry. 
“It would be awful if anything happened to her here.” 

“Let’s get them all together in the library after lunch, 


Vacation 


161 


and close all the doors and windows, and say the 
Rosary. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Marvin refused to leave the bedside even to go 
to her meals. She sent for Wilhelmina and the baby to 
assure herself that they had suffered no injury, and as 
Mary seemed to be sleeping, she allowed her little daugh- 
ter the much coveted look. 

“I always loved her, but not half enough,” declared 
the impetuous child with a sob. “She’ll be like our 
very own now. Won’t the girls at school open their 
eyes when I tell them?” 

“I should not tell them if I were you, dearie. It is 
better that she should not be reminded of her terrible 
fright. We must do all in our power to help her to 
forget,” said Mrs. Marvin, leading the little girl to the 
door of the adjoining room. 

“She is going to get better then, isn’t she?” asked the 
child. 

“I think so, dear, but that must be as God wills. At 
any rate, we must thank Him that she was not gored 
and trampled by that terrible Jef.” 

“Do you know, mother, there wasn’t a sign of the bull 
when we went into the clover field. He must have been 
lying down in the long grass, and I suppose when I 
opened the parasol, it excited him. ’ ’ 

“However that may be, we have much to be thankful 
for. Don’t dwell on the thought of how terrible it all 
was, but, instead, thank God that mother was spared 
two of her darlings.” She kissed the child and added, 
“Jef will give no more trouble. Father had Mose kill 
him. ’ ’ 

“I’d give anything if I were only as brave as Mary 
is,” sighed Wilhelmina.” 

“You are brave, little daughter.” 

“Oh yes, I can climb trees and do daring things to 
show off, but ” 

“But you saved Jack today at the risk of your own 


162 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


life, when many a child would have sacrificed a baby to 
save herself. ’ ’ 

“Why mother! I couldn’t have left Jack behind even 
if that old bull made mince-meat of me,” declared the 
child, indignantly. 

“And,” continued her mother, “a coward does not 
tell the truth as does a little girl I know. But take a 
long nap now, and let me go to Mary . 9 ’ 

Closing the door, Mrs. Marvin stole back to the bed- 
side. She was there but a few minutes when the door 
softly opened again, and a woebegone little face peered 
in. This time the mother went into Wilhelmina’s room 
and closed the door behind her. 

“What is it, dear? You seem to be very much upset 
this afternoon.” 

“0 mother,” exclaimed the little girl, bursting into 
tears and clinging to her, “I see it all now! It’s all my 
fault that Jef chased us and she’s nearly dead; and if 
she dies, I ’ll never, never forgive myself ! ’ ’ 

“My dear child, what are you talking about?” 

“Oh, if I hadn’t been so stubborn that day Phil took 
me to town, I’d have bought the pale blue parasol he 
wanted me to get, instead of that fiery thing, and then 
Jef wouldn’t have got excited, and nothing would have 
happened, and — and ” 

“Wilhelmina, listen to me. You must be quiet. If 
you wake Mary, you may make her worse. ” This 
threat had the desired effect, and the mother continued, 
“It was not your parasol that angered Jef. A white rag 
fluttering in the breeze would have produced the same 
result. I was down near the big pasture a few evenings 
ago, and noticing how ugly he seemed, I spoke to father 
about him, and father told one of the men to remove him 
to the small lot, away from the other animals. The man 
misunderstood the direction and put him in the clover 
field. The intense heat together with the flies, which 
have been particularly troublesome this year, had suc- 
ceeded in almost maddening the bull, and the waving of 


Vacation 


163 


the clover blossoms would have been enough to infuriate 
him. Probably, too, the bees molested him. So don’t 
worry about it any more, like a good child. I hear 
Mary stirring ” 

“The doctor told Phil to give me some medicine, too.” 

‘ 1 1 shall have him bring it up to me ; then I can take 
care of both patients. Leave this door open if you 
wish,” said Mrs. Marvin, again returning to Mary’s 
room. 

That evening, Mr. Marvin gave unusual orders for the 
following morning, — a long sleep and a late breakfast. 
His wife insisted on remaining at her post, and it was 
only when the first faint gray of dawn brought the 
faithful Jinny with a cup of fragrant coffee, that she 
consented to allow the nurse to relieve her at the bed- 
side. The child was at last sleeping naturally and the 
color was returning to the wan little face. 

Doctor Blackwell, who arrived about ten o’clock, pro- 
nounced Mary decidedly better, and declared that by re- 
maining in bed three or four days she would be herself 
again. 

“But Doctor!” cried Mary in consternation, “Uncle 
is coming tomorrow afternoon.” 

“So Mr. Marvin tells me, and I shall be delighted to 
see him again.” 

“But I must go to meet him. He will be dreadfully 
anxious and disappointed if I don’t.” 

“Hm!” said the Doctor, “ I cannot quite see, my dear, 
how you are going to stand that drive to the station and 
back when you are not able to walk across the floor. 
Mr. Marvin, I am sure, will think of some means to 
satisfy your uncle.” 

“But can’t I even go down on the porch for just a 
little while when he comes ? ’ ’ she pleaded. 

“I ought to say ‘no’ even to that, but I suppose you 
would fret yourself into a worse condition than an hour 
down there would be apt to bring on. One hour, mind, 
not a minute over!” insisted the old gentleman. 


164 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


“Never mind, dearie," said Mrs. Marvin. “It is true 
that the long drive would only tire you so much that 
you would not be able to enjoy any of the fun we have 
been planning for Uncle Frank’s visit." 

“Will you ask the boys to fix up the wagonette just 
the same, even if I can’t go? Uncle will enjoy it, I 
know. Wilhelmina and all of them must go, too." 

‘ ‘ If you wish it, I shall tell them to do so. Father has 
a little business that will take him to Laurel tomorrow, 
where he will meet the New York train and return with 
Uncle Frank." She did not tell the child that her hus- 
band was making this little trip in order to acquaint 
the Doctor with the recent event, and to allay any 
anxiety the latter might feel at not finding Mary with 
the others at the station. “I shall instruct Wash to 
keep a sharp lookout and ’phone us from the lodge the 
instant the wagonette comes in sight. Then you can be 
ready to go down at the very last minute and not waste 
any of that precious hour waiting on the porch." 

“You are wonderful for thinking up nice things to 
do. I don’t see how I can ever thank you enough." 

“My dear little girl, we owe you a debt that can never 
be repaid. But since you have really enjoyed your visit 
here, you must promise to return next year to spend the 
whole vacation with us." 

“I should just love to — that is, if Uncle will come, 
too." 

“Certainly dear, that is understood." 

“I’m afraid he will be disappointed now if I have to 
keep so quiet for half the week he is to be here." 

“You must not worry about that. He, too, will wish 
to rest for a few days. But I have a secret that I am 
saving until he comes, and you will see that everything 
will be all right. Now, I am going to have Wilhelmina 
come up to read to you, but if she tires you, you must 
send her away." 

Mary, much amused at her little friend’s efforts to 
be extremely cautious and demure, finally remarked, 


Vacation 


165 


“You look too funny, Wilhelmina, with that proper ex- 
pression on your face. Please take it off. It’s not nat- 
ural.” 

“I feel like a soda-pop bottle with the cork ready to 
fly off at any minute ; if my feelings begin to fizz, mother 
will come in and send me away. So I guess I’d better 
go before I do or say anything to make you worse. ’ ’ 

“Tell Aunt Etta I’ve enjoyed it very much — not ex- 
actly the story, but just watching you.” 

“The boys are getting the wagonette ready for to- 
morrow, and Phil said to tell you that we’ll drive around 
this end of the house on the way out, because, of course, 
you will have eyes for nothing but your uncle when we 
come back. Mother has told Aunt Chloe to have dinner 
ready the minute he gets here, and we’re going to cram 
all the fun we can into that hour. And Mary,” dropping 
on her knees at the bedside and clasping the thin white 
hand in both her strong brown ones, “I want to say 
something to you, but mother won’t let me, now. You 
know, anyway. ’ ’ Springing to her feet, she passionately 
kissed the pale face and ran from the room. 

On the following day, the hours seemed very long 
until five o’clock brought the sound of wheels to Mary’s 
ears. Mrs. Marvin, who was helping her to dress, assisted 
her to the window to see the gay party drive away. 

“Now, the wisest thing for you to do will be to rest 
again for an hour ; by that time we may expect a message 
from Wash. Then we shall have ample time to get down 
to the porch.” 

Promptly at six the ’phone rang, and three minutes 
later, Jinny, with Mary in her strong arms, passed the 
big hall clock on the way to a large wicker rocker on the 
porch. Mrs. Marvin followed with sofa cushions and 
proceeded to make the little girl comfortable. Her 
graceful tact then prompted her to excuse herself on the 
plea of a message for Aunt Chloe, so that uncle and 
niece might have the first moments to themselves. 

The sound of wheels was now plainly audible. With 


166 


Uncle Frank's Mart 


flushed face and sparkling eyes Mary eagerly watched 
for the horses' heads at the turn in the drive. The mo- 
ment they appeared, she rose with some difficulty from 
the chair, and supporting herself by resting her hand 
on a big white column, stood expectant at the top of the 
steps. Before the wagonette came to a stop, the Doctor 
sprang out and was up the steps with the child in his 
arms. The same gentle courtesy evinced by his wife, led 
Mr. Marvin to signal to Phil to drive around to a side 
door where the children were told to remain until dinner 
was served. 

The greetings over, Uncle availed himself of the big 
rocker. 

“It seems just like old times, doesn't it?" remarked 
Mary from her usual place on his knee. 

“With one exception. The pale little girl I sent here 
four weeks ago, looks like a different being." 

“I’m so glad you think so. I did everything I thought 
you would want me to do, and I've had a really good 
time and felt so well until " 

“Yes, yes! I know all about it, and I want to say 
just one thing, — I am proud of my girl. Now, for the 
rest, we are never going to speak or even think of it 
again, except to thank God that He spared you to one 
who, without you, would be a lonely old uncle, indeed. ’ ' 

“It is so good to have you," she whispered, slipping 
her arm around his neck. “I was afraid for awhile that 
day, that I was never going to see you again, " 

“A thousand welcomes, Frank," interrupted Mrs. 
Marvin. “You can not imagine how delighted we all 
are to have you here." 

“Thank you, Etta, thank you. You must pardon my 
not rising, but this young lady has so increased in weight 
that she greatly impedes my actions. I shall have to 
charter an extra engine to take us home next week." 

“Not so fast, Frank. I received a letter from your 
sister saying that school will not reopen until the fif- 
teenth, so that we may keep you with us two whole weeks. 
Now, was that not a secret worth having, Mary?" 


Vacation 


167 


“That is why Aunt Mary smiled so mysteriously when 
I bade her good-by for a week. What will these women 
be up to next, eh, Mary ? * ’ giving her ear a tweak. 

“I hope you stopped at Huyler’s on the way to the 
station, Uncle. You owe me a pound, already. A half 
for my weight, and another for pulling my ear. ’ ’ 

“Why, I thought I was paying you a great compli- 
ment the first time.” 

“Oh, I mean about the engine.” 

The discussion was brought to an end by the appear- 
ance of Mr. Marvin, and the four went in to dinner. 

“We can hear this clock strike in the dining room, 
and at seven, I will have to go upstairs again,” said 
Mary, as they passed through the hall. 

“You really should be there now, but I shall not in- 
sist this time,” replied the Doctor, placing her at the 
table in the chair next his own. 

As the meal progressed, Mary felt sure that the twins 
w T ere up to something, for suppressed giggles, inter- 
spersed with nudges and gestures, prevailed at their end 
of the table. 

Dinner being finished, she observed that there must 
still be left a few minutes of the precious hour, and a 
burst of merriment greeted her remark. 

“But the clock didn’t strike,” she protested, as all 
rose from the table. 

“And it isn’t agoin’ to either,” whispered Bob in her 
ear. “We stopped it so’s you could stay down longer.” 

But Uncle Frank had his watch in his hand and his 
eyes on the culprits so there was no escape ; Mary, tired, 
but oh! so happy, was borne away for the night. Her 
uncle’s presence was the best of tonics, and before many 
days she was able to join in the sports, drives, and long 
horse-back rides through the country, which, to use Wil- 
helmina’s expression, were “crammed” into the re- 
maining two weeks of vacation. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE NEW BOARDER. 

The first week of school was at an end. It was late 
Saturday afternoon, and a noisy little group had gath- 
ered in the room adjoining Mary ’s, of which Wilhelmina 
was to be the happy inmate. All day the two little girls 
had worked, putting it in order; now they sat on the 
wide window-seat, listening to the enthusiastic remarks 
of their companions. 

“It’s as different from Mary ’s as it can be, but I like 
it,” declared Isabel Armstrong. 

“Yes, it’s so odd,” agreed Mabel Perry. 

“Mother fixed my room at home and it’s more on the 
order of Mary ’s — dainty and — oh, you know. But I like 
something with more dash and go to it,” said Wilhel- 
mina, looking about her with a complacent air. 

“You certainly succeeded in getting it then, for I 
never before saw so many colors in one room,” laughed 
Marjorie Moore, her gaze wandering from the flags of all 
nations, which adorned the walls, to the gay Navajo 
rugs. 

‘ ‘ There ’s only one thing that you have forgotten, Wil- 
helmina. ’ ’ 

“For pity’s sake don’t tell me what it is. There’s so 
much in here now, that I’ll have to go out in the hall 
to turn around. That’s the only objection I have to 
this room — it’s too small. I need more space so I can 
prance around and give vent to my feelings. ’ ’ 

“But this wouldn’t take up any room. It belongs 
outside.” 

“A door-mat,” suggested Mabel. 

“No — awnings. It’s like an oven in here.” 

“So it is,” agreed Wilhelmina, much relieved. “I 
168 


The New Boarder 


169 


thought I felt warm because I had worked so hard, but 
if you all feel so, too, it must be the weather. Wait till 
you have some candy, and then we’ll go to the yard. I 
hope you will all appreciate this,” she continued, tak- 
ing a box from the bureau drawer, “for I’ve had to 
practice all kinds of mortifications to save it for today. 
Sit down anywhere — oh! not on the bed!! I have to 
keep that spread clean for a month, and I really don’t 
see how I’m going to do it. Might as well tell me to 
keep my hands clean for a whole day. I have a mind 
to fold it up and put it in the bureau drawer. Here, 
three of you will fit on this window-seat, two on each 
chair, and Mary and I can sit on the floor. The rugs 
are nice and new.” 

“I’d hate to have to sweep and dust this room, Wil- 
helmina. ’ ’ 

“Oh indeed, it’s precious little dusting I intend to 
give it. I’ll open both windows and the door and tran- 
som, and let the breeze do the rest. Have more candy, 
do. And please, everybody make a bluff at eating some 
supper, or Sister won’t let us treat in our rooms any 
more.” 

“Wilhelmina!” 

“Now, Mary, what have I said, or been, or done this 
time?” 

“You told me to remind you when you broke your 
promises to your mother, and you just used slang — 
‘make a bluff.’ ” 

“So I did. Thanks for reminding me. You see, girls, 
I had to promise all sorts of things before mother would 
let me have a room to myself, and Mary is going to help 
me keep my word. She’ll have an awful time of it.” 

“I have a beautiful plan,” said Isabel. “Let’s have 
an Anti-Slang Society, and make badges of ribbon with 
the initials ” 

“Never! never!” “Mercy, no!” “Have everyone 

calling us ” but the words were drowned in screams 

of laughter. 


170 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“You’ll have to change the name, or else be the only- 
member, Isabel.” 

“Dear me, I never thought of what it spelled. Call 
it ‘Anti-Slang Club, 9 then.” 

“Too much like the other. I’d always see long ears 
flapping.” 

“Well, the candy box is empty and Sister will won- 
der what is keeping us in here,” interrupted Wilhel- 
mina. “Let’s adjourn until next Saturday, and we can 
think up a name in the meantime.” 

“We have had a grand time, Wilhelmina, and your 
room is be-yew-tee-ful.” 

“Thank you, girls, but really there isn’t so much in 
a private room, after all. The dormitory is a pretty nice 
place. You don’t get so lonesome there.” 

“If Aunt Etta heard that after all your teasing, I 
wonder what she’d think,” laughed Mary. 

“Why, I never knew you two are cousins,” said 
Mabel. 

“We’re not; we’re sisters. We’ve adopted each oth- 
er,” promptly answered Wilhelmina, casting a warning 
glance over her shoulder, as, with her arm about Mary, 
she led the way to the yard. 

They found Sister Austin sitting on a bench from 
which she could command a view of the play-ground. 

“0 Sister,” cried Marjorie, “do go in to see Wil- 
helmina ’s room. It’s a dream!” 

“I shall have to wait until Sister Damien comes to 
relieve me, ’ ’ answered the religious, smiling at the happy 
children. “ But whom have we here ? ” 

The girls turned and saw Mother Madeline approach- 
ing, holding a little girl by the hand. 

“It must be a visitor,” volunteered Wilhelmina. 

“Isn’t she a darling!” exclaimed Maud. 

“She looks like a great big doll,” said Isabel. 

By this time the Superior and her little companion 
had reached the group. 


The New Boarder 


171 


“This is little Bertha Ashmere, Sister. You read a 
letter from her aunt, a few days ago. I had an idea she 
was older than she is. The nurse is waiting to take her 
home again if we think her too young. ’ ’ 

“Oh p’ease, p’ease let me ’tay here,” cried the little 
one vehemently, clinging tightly to Mother’s arm. 
“Don’t send me back to Auntie’s house. I’ll be as dood 
as nennyfing, and I tin button mine own shoes and do 
lots of fings mine own self. P’ease let me tay wif ’oo!” 

It was certainly hard to resist the expression in the 
pleading, tearful eyes. 

“But you don’t know us at all, dear, and perhaps 
you would not be happy here,” said Mother, kindly. 

“Ess I will. I love ’oo yight now.” 

“Let us give her a week’s trial, Mother — ” 

“Oh yes, Mother, do please! We will all help to take 
care of her,” cried the little girls, crowding about the 
beautiful child who clung closer to her first friend. 

“Will you remain here with Sister Austin, while I 
go to tell Lena that you will stay with us?” 

“Ess, Muzzer,” was the prompt reply. The child at 
once transferred her hold to Sister’s hand. The latter 
lifted her to the bench, where she sat gravely regarding 
the girls, who strove to make friends with her and 
vainly coaxed her to play with them. Then she turned 
her eyes toward the receding form of Mother Madeline, 
who, accompanied by Mary, was returning to the house. 

“Am all zose her chillun?” inquired Bertha, with a 
wave of her chubby hand in the direction of the romp- 
ing groups. 

“Oh no, dear, Mother Madeline is the head of this 
big house and we call her ‘Mother.’ These girls all 
have their own mothers, or fathers, or aunties to take 
care of them, ’ ’ explained Sister. 

“My muzzer and fazer am in Hebben,” continued the 
child gravely, “and pitty soon I is goin’ to go zere, too.” 

“Here is a lovely piece of candy,” interrupted Wil- 


172 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


helmina, anxious to change the conversation to some- 
thing less serious. 

“Fank ’oo,” said the little one. “Zat feels dood in 
my mouf.” 

“Isn’t she dear, Sister?” 

“Zose dir Is make a drefful noise,” was the next re- 
mark from the serious baby, who looked anxiously at 
Sister to see what effect the boisterous recreation was 
producing. 

‘ ‘ They are having such a good time. Don ’t you want 
to go play with them ? ’ 9 

But Bertha shook her head and wriggled farther 
back on the bench. 

In the meantime, Mother Madeline and her little 
niece had entered the house. 

“0 Auntie, you must see Wilhelmina’s room. Go 
around that way some time when she isn’t there, because 
I know you will want to laugh, and it wouldn’t do to 
hurt her feelings. ’ ’ 

“But why shall I want to laugh?” 

* ‘Because it’s so kind of funny for a bed-room. Of 
course I couldn’t say anything to her, but it reminds 
me of the inside of a circus tent.” 

“I must certainly take a look at it. And dearie, I 
know there is no need of telling you to be kind to the 
new little one. As in your case, both her parents are 
dead, and her aunt is in such poor health that she can- 
not bear even the noise and prattle of that little child. 
Then, too, she feels that Bertha should have young com- 
panions; so do what you can to make the little one 
happy. She is entirely too serious for one so small. 
But why are you coming in now?” 

“I thought we might coax her to play if I got that 
big rubber ball of mine with the red and blue and yel- 
low stripes on it. She seems so timid, and that would 
amuse her.” 

“Yes, do get it. Little folks like bright things.” 


The New Boarder 


173 


A few minutes later, the girls saw Mary skipping to- 
ward them, bouncing the gay ball before her. As if by 
accident, she missed her stroke and the pretty plaything 
rolled across the grass toward them. With a cry of 
delight, Bertha slipped off the bench and seized it. Then 
ensued a lively game. The little child’s uncertain aim 
sent the ball just where it was least expected, and the 
girls were often caught napping. When the fun was at 
its height, Bertha suddenly stood still, and, with a 
“Sh ,” placed her tiny finger on her lips and tip- 

toed across the grass to the bench where Sister Austin 
sat enjoying the fun. Climbing up beside the latter, 
she folded her hands in her lap, saying penitently, “I 
fordo t. ’ ’ 

“What did you forget, dear? Weren’t you having a 
good time with the ball, or are you tired ? ’ ’ 

“Ess, I was having lots of fun, and I isn’t tired, but 
we was all sqweaming loud as nennyfing. ’ ’ 

“But that is all right, out here in the yard.” 

“But ’oo has a hek-ache and all ze ozzer ladies in ze 
house has a hek-ache and we was sqweaming. ’ ’ 

“No dear, I haven’t a headache. What makes you 
think I have?” 

“Tause ’oo has a wite wag tied awound ’oor head, 
and a black fing over it, and zat’s what my auntie does 

when she has a hek-ache, and zen she say, ‘ Sh ! ’Oo 

is a naughty dirl to make so much noise and ’oo tan’t 
go to Hebben wif ’oor muzzer.” 

“Poor auntie was very sick, I am sure; but here you 
can run and laugh and shout, all you please. Of course, 
in the house they play quiet games.” 

“I wis’ I had a yitty jink.” 

“And you must be hungry, too, after your long ride.” 

“No, not hungwy, ’tause Lena had a nice lunch in a 
botz — shicken, and jelly-bwead and cake and oranges; 
and we ate it all up and f ru ze botz out ze window. ’ ’ 

“My! that was a nice lunch, indeed. But here is 


174 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Mary. She will take you to get a drink. It will soon 
be supper time. ,, 

“And my hands am all ’tieky, too.” 

“I’ll wash them for her, Sister,” said Mary, who led 
the child toward the house. 

“I loves ev’ybody here,” declared Bertha. 

“And we’ll all love you, too. Do you know, you and 
I ought to be great friends, because your mother and 
father are in Heaven, and so are mine.” 

“What is zat?” 

“What is what?” 

“Dreat fwends.” 

“Oh, a great friend is someone who loves you very 
much, and does nice things for you, and shares her 
candy and good things with you, and writes letters to 
you when you go away — ” 

“I tin wite yetters. I wite ’em often to Dod and ask 
Him to take me to Hebben wif muzzer. I’ll wite ’oo 
one t’mornin’.” 

4 1 But we won ’t need to write letters, because we ’ll see 
each other every day.” 

In the meantime, Wilhelmina and her companions 
had again gathered about Sister. 

‘ ‘ Sister, will you please do us a favor ? ’ ’ 

“That depends on what it is.” 

“Oh, you can do it just as easy as anything, Sister.” 

“Please say ‘yes,’ Sister.” 

“Not until I know what it is.” 

“Well, I s’pose we’ll have to tell it, girls,” said Wil- 
helmina. “It’s this, Sister. May Bertha sit at our 
table, in the vacant place next to Mary ? ’ ’ 

“Oh yes, Sister, and we can help wait on her.” 

“Sister Benigna has enough little ones to take care 
of, already, Sister.” 

“Please let her, Sister. 


The New Boarder 


175 


“That might be an excellent plan in more ways than 
one, replied Sister, thoughtfully. “So young a child 
needs careful training, and you will all have to set her 
a good example, as far as table manners are concerned. 
Yes, I think it will be a very good plan. I see Sister 
Damien has arrived, so if Wilhelmina and Marjorie will 
come help me, I shall unpack Bertha’s suit-case and get 
her crib ready in the dormitory.” 

“0 girls/ ’ exclaimed Wilhelmina, half an hour later, 
“I wish you could see that baby’s clothes. Piles of little 
white dresses and not a dark gingham among them. And 
they all have red ribbon run through them or red sashes. 
I wonder why she wears red?” 

“Maybe she is consecrated to the Sacred Heart,” sug- 
gested Mary, thinking of her own little sister. 

“That must be it,” agreed Wilhelmina. “At first 
Sister said it seemed extravagant to dress a child at 
school in white all the time, and then she said it was an 
ill wind that didn’t blow good to somebody, and since 
Bertha’s aunt insists on the white dresses and has plenty 
of money, the laundry work will be a God-send to that 
poor Mrs. Rooney. You know, the woman who lives 
down the road. She has a crippled boy and was here 
this morning, Sister says, looking for just such work. 
Sister promised to send her our dresses when they need 
to be done up for entertainments, but that will be only 
once in a great while; now this fine lot of things will 
have to be laundered every week, and I ’m so glad. ’ ’ 

Every Sunday morning the hour from ten to eleven 
was devoted to letter-writing. During her visit at Wil- 
helmina ’s home, Mary had made the resolution to spend 
this period in writing a long letter to Aunt Etta; but 
now, as she sat in her accustomed place near the open 
window, her mind traveled back over the two previous 
years when this hour had been one of the happiest of 
the whole week. For had she not spent it in pouring out 
her little heart to the loved mother so far away? The 
memory of it all was so overwhelming, that she almost 
decided to abandon the resolution she had made. 


176 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


‘ ‘But no,” she declared to herself, “I said I would and 
I will/ ’ and taking up her pen, she proceeded to tell 
Aunt Etta all that had occurred since her return to 
school. Unknown to her, Sister Austin, from her place 
in the front of the room, had witnessed the struggle, and 
thinking that Mary was writing a 4 ‘practice letter,” as 
the girls called those which they did not intend to send, 
she resolved to excuse the child from this exercise and 
send her to play in the yard with Bertha and the other 
little ones. So when nought but the scratch, scratch of 
pens was to be heard, she stole down the aisle to Mary’s 
side and whispered her permission. 

“But I am going to send this letter, Sister. It is to 
Wilhelmina ’s mother. She has been very kind to me, 
and I’m going to write to her every Sunday.” 

“ I am glad you have found such a good friend, dear, 
and I am sure she will enjoy your letters, especially as 
those Wilhelmina writes are very unsatisfactory.” 

“But I think she will write better ones this year. 
Aunt Etta thought she had improved a lot, and was so 
surprised to see her darn stockings.” 

“Wilhelmina darn stockings ! ’ ’ 

“Oh yes, Sister, every morning for half an hour she 
helped her mother with the mending.” 

“And how about you?” asked Sister, suspecting the 
true state of affairs. 

“I did some, too,” the child admitted, “for you see, 
I had none of my own to mend. Aunt Mandy put only 
new ones in my trunk, because she won’t believe I can 
darn, and she said she wouldn’t have me be a trouble 
to anyone.” 

“Well, finish your letter. I suppose you have plenty 
of news.” 

“Yes, Sister. I’m telling about Bertha, now,” re- 
plied Mary, resuming her writing. 

The hour passed quickly, and at its close Mary had 
finished the following: 


The New Boarder 


177 


Maryvale, Sept. 20, 1907. 

Dear Aunt Etta: 

So many things have happened since I said good-bye 
to you, that I hardly know where to begin to tell about 
them. 

When we got to New York, Tuesday morning, we went 
first to one of the big stores to buy the things for Wil- 
helmina’s room, and then Uncle brought us out here. 
Aunt Mary was glad to see us all again, and everyone 
thinks I have gained. There was not much school that 
day. We bought our new books, and unpacked our 
trunks; but Wednesday the real work began. If all the 
weeks are as short as this one, Christmas will be here be- 
fore we know it. 

Yesterday we finished fixing Wilhelmina’s room. It 
is the one next to mine, and I pound on the wall every 
morning so she will remember to get up at once as she 
promised you. We practice together a little while every 
day, but don’t tell Uncle Phil. That is our secret, you 
know. 

I hope he and the boys are well. I could not help 
thinking of Dick yesterday when a new little girl came 
to board. She is just about his age, and I know they 
would have lots of fun playing together. Her name is 
Bertha Ashmere, and she makes me think so much of 
what my Berta would have been, that it makes me lone- 
some. The poor little thing’s father and mother are 
dead, too, and she has been living with her aunt, but 
she does not seem to love her a bit. It makes me feel 
how much I have to be thankful for, with Uncle and 
Aunt Mary and all of you to love me. 

Your affectionate niece, 
Mary. 

As a rule, the younger children composed their letters 
Saturday afternoon, but this week they begged to write 
them without correction or help of any kind, promising 
to be most careful and to consult the dictionary for all 


178 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


doubtful words. Sister, knowing that their parents 
would make allowance for the first letter of the school- 
year, acceded to their wishes. Whether or not she re- 
gretted the experiment, Wilhelmina ’s letter will prove. 

Maryvale, Sept. 20, 1907. 
Dearest, darlingest Father and Mother: 

It seems like perfect ages since I gave you that last 
hug, but I have counted it all up and marked it on a 
little calendar and fourteen weaks from today I will be 
home for Christmas. We got the things for my room, 
they are butifool. There was some money left and Uncle 
Frank gave it to Sister so if I need anything. I bought 
a dictionary, one with red letters down the side. There 
is a new border, she is the sweetest darlingest little thing. 
She calls me Willymean. I no you will see a grate im- 
provement in this letter because I looked up every word 
that I was not absolootly sure of in my new die. Mary 
says I am to go to the parlar with her every time Uncle 
Frank comes, so that will brake the monotone. In the 
dictionary that last word does not mean the same as I 
want it to, and it only sounds rite when you say the 
last e like some French words. Give my darling love to 
the boys and tell them to rite soon and to take good care 
of Dixie. 

From your loving child, 

Wilhelmina. 

P. S. I forgot to say the room looks grand. 

Willy. 

P. S. Mary helped to fix it ,and I never said a word 
about the bull to anybody but I am dyeing to. But I 
won’t until you say I may, cause I said I would not and 
I won’t . 


Wilhelmina. 


The New Boarder 


179 


It was nearly four o’clock that afternoon when Doctor 
Carlton arrived at Maryvale. He had walked half way 
up the drive, pausing now and then to watch the chil- 
dren at play under the trees in the distance, when he 
heard his name shrilly called, and looking behind him, 
he beheld Mary and Wilhelmina racing over the grass. 

Gently, gently , little girls ! Do you realize that this 
is a very warm afternoon?” he protested, removing his 
hat and mopping his forehead. 

“How did you ever get away up here? We have been 
watching for you over an hour, and just turned around 
for a minute to look for a shady bench, and you slipped 
by us. Aunt Mary thought you’d rather stay out under 
the trees, and said we could watch for you. ’ ’ 

“And we have something good, down yonder,” added 
Wilhelmina. ‘ * Something that will cool you off. ’ ’ 

‘ * I am sure Aunt Mary and both of you are very kind 
to trouble yourselves so much about my comfort; but 
really, that walk from the station is no joke, a day like 
this. ’ ’ 

Chattering like a pair of magpies, the little girls led 
him to the bench previously selected. 

“What did you do with the refreshments, Wilhel- 
mina?” 

“I put them in that bush, so no one would see them. 
Wait, I’ll get them.” Wilhelmina parted the branches 
of a thick lilac bush, and brought forth a pitcher and a 
glass. “The ice isn’t quite melted, so I guess it’s cool 
yet.” 

“This is a treat, I assure you,” declared the Doctor, 
as he emptied a tumbler of lemonade. “But where are 
your glasses? Yes, you must have some of this, too.” 

“No! no! It’s all for you. We had ours before we 
came out here. We asked Sister to use our candy money 
to buy lemons during the hot weather, so that is how we 
all happened to have lemonade today,” explained Mary. 

“A very sensible plan,” observed her uncle. Putting 


180 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


his hand into his pocket, he drew out a bill which he 
handed to her, saying, “Give that to Sister and ask her 
to let you have lemonade every day while this weather 
lasts.’ ’ 

“Oh thank you, Uncle; Wilhelmina and I would 
rather have it than ice cream soda, but lots of the girls 
wouldn’t.” 

“It just touches the spot with me,” declared Wilhel- 
mina. 

A puzzled expression came over Mary’s face, and 
after a moment’s silence she asked, “Uncle, is ‘touches 
the spot’ slang? Wilhelmina wants me to help her to 
stop using slang, and sometimes we don’t agree on 
words.” 

“Yes, I promised mother I’d stop; but Uncle Frank, 
don’t you think I ought to have kind of a recess about 
twice a day — say a half hour or so, morning and after- 
noon, when I could talk all the slang I want to ? A per- 
son feels so bottled up trying to be proper all the time. ’ ’ 

Wilhelmina ’s woe-begone expression, together with his 
own ideas of the child’s efforts to be “proper,” amused 
the Doctor greatly. 

“But my dear little girl, in those two half hours you 
would probably lose more than you had gained in sev- 
eral hours. However, since you made the promise to 
your mother, why not ask her about it?” 

“That’s just what I’ll do,” exclaimed Wilhelmina, 
eagerly. “I’ll ask Sister to give me my letter again 
and I’ll add a postscrift. But,” and the clouds once 
more settled on the bright little face, “She won’t give 
it back to me, I know, ’cause I’ve got three postscrifts 
on it already.” 

“I haven’t any, so I’ll get my letter from Sister and 
ask for you,” said Mary, sympathetically. 

“Isn’t she just the best one for thinking of things?” 
cried the delighted Wilhelmina. “And I wish I had 
asked Sister to let me show you my room. Mary helped 
me with that, too. I’ll get permission to take you in 


The New Boarder 


181 


to see it the very next time you come. Remind me, 
Mary. ’ ’ 

“I will. And 0 Uncle ” 

“Oh yes, Uncle Frank, we’ve got — excuse me, Mary, 
you tell it.” 

“No, you tell it.” 

“I’ll go see if I can’t find her. She was taking her 
nap when we came out,” said Wilhelmina, running off in 
the direction of the house. 

“Well,” asked the Doctor, “what have you, and who 
is taking her nap? You are both very mysterious.” 

“It’s a new boarder — the dearest, sweetest, little thing 
you ever did see. She’s only three years old and her 
father and mother are dead, and she has been living 
with an aunt ; but I don ’t believe Bertha loves her very 
much, because she almost cried when Aunt Mary said 
she was too small to stay here. So they are going to 
try her for a week, and I do hope they’ll keep her all 
the time. She didn’t bring any toys, so I loaned her 
my big ball and the Teddy bear 1 — things she can’t break, 
you know. I wish you could have seen her rocking the 
bear to sleep a while ago. She made us all walk around 
on our tiptoes and wouldn’t take her own nap until she 
had put him to bed. And she says the funniest things. 
I hope she’s awake so you can see her. Her name is 
Bertha Ashmere, and her aunt lives in Albany. Do you 
know anyone of that name, Uncle?” 

“Ashmere,” repeated the Doctor thoughtfully. “Ash- 
mere — Albany — I can’t say that I do, Mary. But wait 
a minute — where have I heard that name? Ashmere — 
When was I in Albany?” 

“You went up there to some kind of a meeting last 
May; don’t you remember?” 

“So I did. — Ashmere. — I have it! A friend of mine 
took me for an auto ride out through the suburbs where 
one beautiful home, in particular, attracted my atten- 
tion. The painters and other workmen were busy about 
it, and my friend said it belonged to a southern lady who 


182 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


had married an Englishman, and had lived abroad for 
several years. He died, and there was a rumor that she 
was expected home early in the summer. I am sure 
Ashmere was the name. And this very wonderful little 
girl is probably the husband’s niece.” 

“You needn’t be laughing, sir. You will be just as 
foolish about her as any of us. Here she comes with 
Wilhelmina, and she’s still hugging Ted. Now, isn’t 
she just darling!” insisted Mary, running to meet the 
two. “Bertha, this is my uncle. He will be another 
of your friends.” 

Freeing her little hand from Wilhelmina ’s grasp, the 
child placed it in the Doctor’s big palm while she fixed 
her great dark eyes on the kind face above her and said 
gravely, “I is most happy to make ’oor ’twaintance. ” 

“What’s that!” exclaimed the good man. 

Raising her voice a little, she repeated, seriously and 
deliberately, “I is most happy to make ’oor ’twaint- 
ance, ’ ’ while Mary and Wilhelmina stood by, thoroughly 
enjoying Uncle’s amazement. 

“My auntie told me I must say zat ze first time I 
meet peoples, ’ ’ continued Bertha, a little taken aback at 
the effect her words had produced. 

“Oh, indeed!” remarked the Doctor, fully aware of 
the triumphant glances that were being exchanged be- 
tween the other children. “And tell me,” he went on as 
he lifted the little one to his knee, “what does your 
auntie wish you to say the second time you meet a per- 
son?” 

“I don’t know,” said Bertha, shaking her head grave- 
ly, but still keeping her eyes fixed on his face. “She 
neber did say nennyfing ’bout ze second time. Many 
peoples didn’t turn to see my auntie.” 

“Well, well! I wonder if I haven’t some pennies for 
a good little girl,” but like a flash Bertha slid off his 
knee and backed away with her hands behind her. 

“No, no! I don’t want nenny pannies. Muzzer did 
say ’tisn’t nice for yitty dirls to take pannies from 
folks.” 


The New Boarder 


183 


“And your mother was right, little one; but you see 
I have acquired had habits, for so many girls and boys 
that I know will not take their medicine nor do what I 
wish them to do unless I give them pennies. Mary, 
suppose you come here and see if you can’t find some- 
thing in my pockets that a little girl would like.” 

As Mary proceeded with the search, Bertha again drew 
near and leaned confidingly against Uncle Frank’s 
knee. Occasionally, instead of the ordinary box, the 
Doctor amused himself and Mary by having the candy 
put up in a number of small fancy boxes representing 
animals, flowers, or toys. Such was the case today. One 
by one, Mary laid the little packages on the bench till 
Bertha finally exclaimed, “Oh, so many, many pottets 
as he has dot. I wis’ I had a pottet so I wouldn’t be 
all ze time losing my hanklefis.” 

“Never mind, honey,” said Wilhelmina, “I heard Sis- 
ter say she is going to make pockets in all your dresses, 
too.” 

“I think I’ve found all of them,” declared Mary. 
“Now Bertha, help me to open them, and you can have 
whichever you like best. Uncle says this one is for you, 
Wilhelmina. Something you’re very fond of. It will 
make you think of old times,” tossing a queer-shaped 
package into her little friend’s lap. “Can you untie the 
string, Bertha?” 

“I fink I tan,” replied the child, eagerly. “Now it’s 
off — see ! see ! oh, ze sweet yitty puss-tat ! ’ ’ she exclaimed, 
running from one to the other to show her gift. “It’s 
head turns ’wound. Oh! I’ve pulled it off,” she cried, 
on the verge of tears. 

“It isn’t broken, Bertha. See what is inside.” 

“Tandy! what a funny puss-tat wif tandy inside. 
My pussy at my auntie’s only had a meow inside.” 

“But look at all these pretty things. Maybe you 
would rather have one of them,” suggested Mary, draw- 
ing her attention to the array on the bench. “Here’s a 
little drum and a rose and a bunny and a funny little 
man; what is yours, Wilhelmina?” 


184 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“There was an old darkey and his name was TJncle 
Ned,” sang Wilhelmina. “ Isn’t he just the image of 
old Mose down home ? Even to the fiddle ! ’ ’ 

“I like nennyfing ’oo want to give me,” said Bertha, 
at the same time casting a wistful look at the kitten 
which she still held. 

“But I want you to have the one you like the very 
best.” 

“Oh, zen I’ll teep my yitty puss-tat, p’ease, and 
ev’ybody must take some tandy, and Sissoo Aus’n and 
all ze yitty dirls, too.” 

To humor her, each was obliged to take a piece of 
her candy. 

“Now, Bertha, you and I must go, so say good-by to 
the Doctor,” said Wilhelmina. 

“Isn’t she dear?” demanded Mary, after the two 
had gone. 

“She is, indeed. I shall be very careful in future not 
to doubt the judgment of two such able critics. But it 
is time we were going in to see Aunt Mary. ’ ’ 

“Doesn’t Bertha remind you of someone, Uncle?” 
Mary asked as they neared the house. “It has puzzled 
me ever since I first saw her, but I can’t think who it 
is;” 

“She certainly resembles someone I know. Might it 
be any of the Marvins?” 

“I thought of them on account of her hair and eyes, 
but she doesn’t look a bit like them. Perhaps Aunt 
Mary will know.” 

But though Mother Madeline, too, saw a striking re- 
semblance to someone, she could not say to whom; and 
thus the child lived on unknown among her own. She 
was a great favorite. Even the tiniest kindergarten tot 
felt almost grown up in her presence, and all games 
and stories were chosen with a view of amusing “little 
Bertha.” She was the subject of conversation during 
many a recreation hour, her quaint sayings affording 


The New Boarder 


185 


much enjoyment to the Sisters and older pupils. Were 
it not for her own naturally sweet disposition, the child 
would soon have been thoroughly spoiled. While she 
loved “ev’ybody,” she showed a decided preference for 
Mary’s company, and was never happier than when with 
the latter in her cozy room playing with the dolls and 
games that by degrees found their way down from the 
little brown trunk. To go with Mary to practice soon 
became a habit, and she would sit on a little chair in 
the comer of the music room with the bear or a doll in 
her arms, until, toward the end of the half hour, Mary 
purposely played something particularly lively, which 
was a signal for a grand frolic. After the children had 
gone to class, she followed Sister Austin about the dor- 
mitories; then, during the fine weather, the two spent 
the rest of the morning out under the trees, where Sis- 
ter sewed, while she played near by, or paid visits to 
Dan and his garden, or to Patrick and the chickens. 

One bright morning, a day or two before the Feast 
of the Guardian Angels, which was always a great day at 
Maryvale, Sister noticed that Bertha was unusually pre- 
occupied. Heedless of the toys strewn about her on the 
grass, the child sat gazing wistfully at the distant hills. 

“It seems to me a little girl I know is very quiet to- 
day,” observed Sister. 

“I was finking,” answered Bertha, rising and draw- 
ing near, until she leaned against Sister’s knee. 

“And of what were you thinking, dear?” 

“I was finking if I will soon be dood enough to go 
to Hebben wif muzzer,” and the little face worked pain- 
fully. “Does ’oo fink so, Sissoo?” 

“But what would your good auntie do without you if 
God should take you to Heaven?” 

“I hasn’t nenny dood auntie,” insisted Bertha ve- 
hemently. “She am a bad auntie. She wouldn’t let me 
go wif muzzer and yitty sissoo, and muzzer she say 
‘turn,’ and auntie tweezed me tight so I touldn’t go, 
and I want to go to muzzer yight now, I do, I do ! ” she 
cried, the tears rolling down the pathetic little face. 


186 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“But auntie couldn’t let you go, darling, unless God 
took you, ’ ’ urged Sister, taking the child on her lap and 
trying to calm her. 

“Ess she tould. Muzzer was in ze yitty boat and 
tailed me. But oh! oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her 
chubby hands over her mouth and looking fearfully 
about her. “I fordot! My auntie she did say if I talk 
about zat I is bad and tan’t go to Hebben wif muzzer. 
And now,” with a wail of distress, “I is bad ” 

“No, dear, you are not bad at all. You did not mean 
to disobey your auntie.” 

Kind-hearted Sister Austin could not understand 
why the little one had been forbidden to speak of her 
mother; but concluding that Mrs. Ashmere had wise 
reasons for the prohibition, she tried to divert Bertha’s 
mind from the painful topic. 

“Have you visited the chickens, today? I saw Pat- 
rick going down that way a little while ago. Poor, old 
Teddy needs exercise, too. Take him with you, and I 
shall come after you when it is time to go in. ’ ’ 

As Bertha trotted away, Sister watched her until a 
corner of the house hid her from view. Then she took 
up the sewing again, wondering, meanwhile, why Mrs. 
Ashmere had used so severe a threat to prevent the little 
girl’s thinking of her mother’s funeral; for, like the 
stewardess, she interpreted the “little boat” as the 
coffin. Suddenly her train of thought was interrupted 
by a loud cackling mingled with Bertha’s piercing 
screams. Fearing lest Patrick had not gone to the chick- 
en yard, as she had supposed, and that the child was in 
some mischief, she hastened in the direction whence the 
sounds proceeded. As she turned the corner of the 
house, she beheld Bertha running toward her screaming 
at the top of her voice and holding her hands tightly 
over her ears. 

“Turn twick! turn twick!” cried the child frantically, 
as soon as she caught sight of the religious. “Zat 
naughty bad Patwick is chopping ze heads off all ze 
pitty shickies, and zey is jumping around wifout nenny 


The New Boarder 


187 


heads. P’ease, p’ease make him stop!” and she hid her 
face in the folds of Sister’s habit, sobbing aloud at the 
fate of her pets. 

“But Bertha, the girls are going to have chicken for 
dinner on the Feast Day, so Patrick has to kill them be- 
fore they can be cooked. You like chicken, too. You 
told me you do, don’t you remember?” 

“Zat was meat shicken, not pitty birdies wif fezzers 
on, ’ ’ she protested between her sobs. 

“Well, you wait until those chickens are cooked and 
you will see what good meat chicken they will make. ’ ’ 

“I won’t eat nenny of zem,” declared the child with 
a vigorous shake of her head. 

At the dinner table she rehearsed for the girls the 
tragedy of the morning, and in mournful tones an- 
nounced that, later on, when passing the kitchen door, 
she “saw the Sissoos peeling the shiekens.” 

But the fine October days came to an end, and Novem- 
ber set in cold and rainy. One stormy afternoon while 
paying a visit to Mary in her room, Bertha spied the 
latter’s umbrella and remarked in her most coaxing 
tones, “I wis’ I had a yitty umb-yella.” 

“I would lend you that one, Bertha, but it is too big 
to play with. You might poke it in your eyes.” 

The child gave the much coveted article another wist- 
ful glance; then turned to the toys within reach. But 
Mary did not forget the little one’s wish, and that eve- 
ning she wrote the following note to Uncle Frank: 

Dear Uncle: 

The next time you come out, will you please bring two 
things? A little ten-cent broom, and a small parasol. 
Pink, or blue, or red. I want them for Bertha. 

Your loving 

Mary. 


188 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Quite late Wednesday afternoon, she received word 
that the Doctor was waiting to see her. Feeling sure he 
would not disappoint her about the toys, she took Bertha 
with her to the parlor. On a chair lay a long package, 
and as Mary greeted her uncle she whispered, “Don’t 
give them to her until Aunt Mary comes. I want her to 
see the fun.” 

They had not long to wait for Mother Madeline, and 
when all were again seated Mary began, “Uncle brought 
you something all for yourself today, Bertha. Come 
over here and see if you can open this big package. ’ ’ 

“All zis for me!” exclaimed the child, her eyes shin- 
ing with expectancy as she tried to untie the cord. With 
Mary’s assistance she soon had it off, and as she pulled 
at the paper the little broom fell to the floor. 

“See! see!” she cried, clapping her hands. “A yitty 
beum, a yitty beum!” and picking it up, she danced 
gleefully about the room. 4 ‘ Now I tan help Sissoo sweep 
ze whole house!” 

“A large amount of pleasure for ten cents,” laughed 
Uncle. 

“Yes, indeed. A cheap little thing like that often 
means more to a child than the most expensive toys,” 
said his sister. 

“But Bertha, there is something else here,” urged 
Mary. „ 

“Sumpin else!” and as the little one unwrapped the 
paper, her face became pale with excitement. 

“Oh, oh!” she gasped when the pink parasol finally 
lay exposed to view. “A yitty umb-yella! A beauty, 
yitty umb-yella!” 

“Uncle, this is better than if you brought me a whole 
bushel of beautiful things,” declared Mary. 

“It is certainly pleasant to have one’s gifts so highly 
appreciated,” laughed the Doctor. “I was very much 
afraid that I should have to disappoint you about the 
parasol; for everywhere I went I was told that such 
things had been put away until next season. So I had 


The New Boarder 


189 


made up my mind that you would have to be contented 
with the broom, when at noon today Liza handed me that 
gay affair. She found it in a little up-town shop. ’ 7 

“Do tell her how much fun we have all had over it. 
Here Bertha/ ’ turning to the child who stood at Mother 
Madeline’s side pointing out the lace ruffles and bows 
of ribbon on her new treasure, “let’s open it and see 
how it looks. You must be careful not to pinch your 
fingers.” 

Bertha had no words left to express her admiration, 
and stood looking first at one, then at another. Sud- 
denly she ran to Uncle Frank, and scrambling up on 
his knee, threw her arms about his neck, exclaiming, 
“Oo is dood, dood, to bring me such beauty fings!” 
Then sliding down again to the floor, she danced about 
Mary, crying, “Oo told him, ’oo told him, I know ’oo 
did! Turn here till I love ’oo,” and Mary willingly 
stooped for the hug which she returned with real af- 
fection. 

“You have made that little child very happy by your 
thoughtfulness, dear, ’ ’ said Mother Madeline a shoi t 
while later, when she and Mary stood at the office doo ? 
watching Bertha, who was farther down the hall dis- 
playing her treasures to one of the Sisters. 

“I sometimes wonder why I love her so, Aunt Mary. 
Maybe it is because she has no father or mother, either. 
But oh! wouldn’t it be lovely if we had our very own 
to do nice things for?” 

“But, dear child, our very own are so much happier 
than we could ever make them. Think what it means 
to be safe with God, forever and ever,” replied the re- 
ligious, stroking the yellow head that leaned against 
her arm. “I feel great pity for this little one who seems 
so much alone in the world. She has no affection what- 
ever for her aunt, and, as far as I know, has no other 
relatives. Her nurse, Lena, who has remained with the 
aunt, was here this morning and said Mrs. Ashmere’s 
health is failing so rapidly that the doctors give her 
only a few months to live. What will life be for that 


190 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


poor little child with no one of her own to care for her ? 
Of course, she will be well provided for, and a guardian 
will be appointed to look after her, but those are minor 
things compared to the affection which a child needs,” 
and Mother’s eyes again rested on the happy baby at 
the end of the hall. After a short pause she continued, 
“You might like to know a thought which came to my 
mind when I saw you playing together in the parlor, 
a little while ago. It is this — that perhaps our dear 
Lord has sent this little girl into your life that you may 
give her the care and affection you would have lavished 
on your own little sisters. ’ ’ 

“0 Auntie, do you really think that? I would be so 
glad if I could make poor little Bertha happy. Often, 
when she does not know I ’m watching, she sits and looks 
away off as if she is thinking of something, and one day 
she began to tell me about her mother’s funeral and she 
kept calling the coffin a little boat; and then she got 
frightened and cried, because she said her auntie didn’t 
want her to talk about her mother. I don’t see how it 
can be wrong for a little girl to talk about her own 
mother, do you?” 

“Mrs. Ashmere could not have meant that it was 
wrong, but she probably does not wish the little one’s 
thoughts to dwell on such sad things. I expect to go to 
Albany, Friday, on business, and I shall call to see 
Bertha’s aunt. Though the child is a Catholic, she is 
not — has no religion whatever — and, as Lena says, it is 
an awful thing to see one on the verge of eternity making 
no preparation to meet her God. So you must ask the 
girls to pray for a special intention. By the way, I 
found such a pretty little picture of Saint Agnes, today, 
and I put it one side for Bertha. Call her in here,” said 
Mother Madeline, crossing the room to her desk. 

“Here is a picture of Saint Agnes, dear,” she said 
to the child. “Do you know what she has in her arms?” 

“A yitty yamb. And Maywy had a yitty yamb, too, 
Muzzer. Ze piczer book say so. Did ’oo weally have 
a yitty yamb, Maywy, wif fyeece as wite as snow?” 


The New Boarder 


191 


“Oh no, that was some other Mary. I never had a 
little lamb. ” 

“It feels like I is detting all ze pitty fings today, and 
poor Maywy isn’t detting nennyfing.” 

“That is so,” agreed Mother Madeline. “Let me see 
if I haven’t something nice here for her, too. How will 
this little medal do ? ” 

“ ’Oo like zat?” inquired Bertha of Mary. “Zen 
say ‘ f ank ’oo, ’ and we will go down ’tairs and show our 
fings to Sissoo Aus’n and ze dirls.” 

“Suppose we wrap up the parasol and broom again 
so they won’t know what in the world you have,” sug- 
gested Mary. 

“And ’oo tan play wif ze yitty umb-yella and sweep 
’oor room wif ze yitty beum whenever ’oo like,” de- 
clared Bertha in a final burst of generosity. 

As they passed down the hall together she exclaimed, 
“Oh, I wis I had a nice uncle and auntie like ’oors.” 

“Why, I’ll tell you what we can do. I’ll give you 
half of Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary, and you give me 
half of your auntie.” 

“ ’Oo tan have all of her. I don’t want nenny of her 
at all,” declared Bertha, promptly. 

“I don’t think that’s very nice for a little girl to say 
about her good auntie.” 

“But she isn’t a dood auntie — she’s bad , bad!” cried 
the child, piteously. “Muzzer did say I has a dood 
uncle and auntie and a bid sissoo, but Aunt Berfa she 
say, ‘No, zey am all gone to Hebben wif muzzer.’ ” 

Mary listened intently. An uncle, an aunt, a sister! 
Oh, Aunt Mary must know as soon as possible so as to 
make the necessary inquiries at Albany. Not that the 
little girl in the least suspected Bertha’s identity, but 
the thought that the child possibly had relatives to care 
for her, made her very happy. 

“Let us sit here on the stairs a little while, Bertha. 
What is your uncle’s name and where does he live?” 


192 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Why, his name am just Uncle, and muzzer neber 
did say where he live. Aunt Berfa did say zey all went 
to Hebben wif muzzer, but zey wasn’t in ze yitty boat 
wif her when she went way, way down in ze dark, ’ ’ de- 
clared the child, beginning to cry. Suddenly she threw 
her arms about Mary, while she looked around in every 
direction, exclaiming, 1 1 Oh, I fordot aden ! I is always 
fordetting. Auntie will say I is bad and tan’t go to 
Hebben!” and, wailing at the top of her voice, she 
clung tightly to the older child. Mary was indignant. 

“You’re not a bad girl. You’re the best little girl 
in the house, and I think it’s a big shame to frighten 
a poor baby that way. Sh ! Sh ! don ’t cry like that dear. 
You’ll have all the Sisters down here to see what’s the 
matter. We’ll talk about Uncle Frank. You know he 
is going to be half yours, now.” 

“Tan I have ze half wif his tick-tock on?” inquired 
the little one, beginning to smile through her tears. 

“Yes, you can sit on his left knee and play with his 
watch, and you may have all the candy and goodies in 
the pockets on that side. But come, let us go down 
and show Sister and the girls your parasol.” 

“And ze yitty beum,” added Bertha. 

As they entered the recreation room, the younger 
children crowded round them, clamoring to see what 
was in the big package; but Bertha waved them back 
with, “ Jes a minute, dirls! Jes a minute!” then pro- 
ceeded toward the opposite side of the room, where Sis- 
ter was sitting. The gesture, the words, the tone were 
so like Sister Austin’s, that the children screamed with 
merriment. Bertha paid no heed, and laying the long 
bundle on Sister’s lap, said briefly, “Sumpin Maywy’s 
Uncle bwought me.” 

After Sister Austin had expressed her admiration to 
Bertha’s entire satisfaction, the child turned to the lit- 
tle girls with a wave of her hand, announcing, “Now 
ev’ybody tan turn see.” 

The rapturous exclamations which greeted the pink 


The New Boarder 


193 


parasol were quite after the little one’s own heart, and 
she beamed graciously on all her friends. Then turning 
again to Sister she cried, “And Sissoo, Maywy did say 
zat I tan have half of her uncle and auntie ; and ven he 
turns, I is going to sit on one of his knees, and Maywy 
on ze ozzer, and he will put one arm awound me, and ze 
ozzer one awound her, and she tan talk into one ear, 
and I tan talk in ze ozzer one, and he will look at me wif 
one eye and at her wif ” 

But a shout from the children drowned the rest of 
the sentence. 

“0 Sister,” begged Marjorie Moore, “do let us all 
peep into the parlor the next time the Doctor comes. 
Just imagine the poor man trying to look two ways at 
once,” joining the others in a hearty laugh. 

“Why for zey is all laughing so loud, Sissoo?” de- 
manded Bertha, indignantly. 

“Don’t mind them, dear. Marjorie is a great tease.” 

“I wis’ it will be waining, t’mornin,’ so I tan go out 
wif my yitty umb-yella.” 

“You surely don’t mean to take that pretty thing out 
in the rain!” cried Wilhelmina. “Why, it would be 
ruined!” 

“But ven will I play wif it, zen?” inquired Bertha, 
a cloud of disappointment spreading over her radiant 
little face. 

“We’ll play with it right now,” insisted Isabel, anx- 
ious to avert the gathering storm. “We’ll make a 
house out of these chairs, so — and this opening will be 
the front door. We’ll pretend that it’s raining like 
everything, and you’re my little girl who must go out 
to buy something for supper.” 

In a moment, under Isabel’s direction, all the little 
folks were engaged in a game of pretend. 

Meanwhile, Mary and Wilhelmina drew their chairs 
near Sister Austin and entered into an important con- 
versation. 


194 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


“Uncle was asking for you, Wilhelmina; but he 
stayed only a short time while you were at your music 
lesson, so Aunt Mary thought I’d better not go for you. 
He’s coming again, Sunday, and wants us to decide be- 
fore then what we’d like to do about Thanksgiving. I 
told him that we are going to have just one day so as 
to make a longer vacation at Christmas, and he said he 
will either send Liza out for us Thursday morning so 
we can spend the day in the city, or else he’ll come out 
here for the whole afternoon. Now, which would you 
rather do?” 

“A whole day in the city would be lots of fun,” re- 
plied Wilhelmina, thoughtfully, “and then again, the 
time it would take to get in there and back here before 
supper wouldn’t leave much of a day after all. We 
would probably have a better time if he came out here. ” 

“That’s just what I think. Do you know, I can 
hardly believe Thanksgiving is so near — just a week 
from tomorrow. Christmas will be here before we know 
it. When are we going to begin to make presents, Sis- 
ter?” 

‘ ‘ Some of the large girls have already completed quite 
a number. How many do you intend to make?” 

“Well, first of all, there’s Uncle. What do you think 
I could make for him? It’s so hard to know what to 
give a man. What are you going to make for your fa- 
ther, Wilhelmina?” 

“Now Mary, such a question ! You know I can’t make 
anything fit to be seen. Why, I heard the boys talking 
to mother about the stockings I had darned, and Harry 
said they ought to be ranked among the foremost corn- 
producing states of the Union. No, indeed, I’ll not in- 
flict any of my needle-work on poor father. Other 
years, I always had a little bank and saved enough to 
buy some nice presents, but,” with a doleful sigh, “all 
my money this year has gone to pay the fines I owed the 
Club. I think some allowance ought to be made for a 
girl with eight brothers, even if she talked slang all 
the time.” 


The New Boarder 


195 


“Where did you little girls get the idea that Christ- 
mas presents must always be made with a needle ? If I 
were you, I should take those drawings you showed me 
the other day, fasten them together in book form, and 
make a cover for them. You can decorate that prettily, 
too, and I am sure no one would want a nicer gift.” 

“And it would be just as much our own work as em* 
broidery or crocheting would be, ’ ’ said Mary. 

“Of course it would. Then, too, it will save your 
eyes. The days are so short that, as it is, you have to 
use them quite enough by artificial light.” 

‘ ‘ Today, in drawing class, Sister said something about 
having us make calendars. They will do for presents, 
too,” said Wilhelmina. “I shall make mine for father.” 

“So they will. I think I’ll make three. One for 
Aunt Mary — it will be my own work, and a very useful 
thing for her.” 

“Useful! I should say calendars are useful. Every 
night before I go to bed, I scratch off another day on 
the one that hangs in my room. It seems to make the 
time pass quicker. There are only about ten days left 
in this month, and the Friday before Christmas will be 
the twentieth, and that night I’ll be on my way home,” 
exclaimed Wilhelmina, clapping her hands gleefully. 

“To whom will you give the other calendars you in- 
tend to make, Mary?” inquired Sister. 

“One to the chaplain — Father Hartley is so good to 
us, Sister — and the third is for some particular friends,” 
replied Mary, nodding toward Wilhelmina and framing 
with her lips the words, “for her father and mother.” 

But her little friend’s attention was directed to Ber- 
tha, who for some moments had been a silent listener 
to the conversation. The latter now began, “I want to 
make a Twismas pwesent for somebody.” 

“What would you like to make, Bertha?” asked Sis- 
ter, much amused. 

“I want to make ze most beauty fing I tan for my 
dweat fwend, but it’s a secwet. I want to bedin yight 


196 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


now. I is tired playing house. Tan’t find nennyfing to 
buy for supper.” 

“Well,” said Wilhelmina, “tell Isabel the stores are 
all closed and that we have invited both of you to take 
supper with us. Then come back here and we’ll decide 
what present you can make for your great friend.” 

As Bertha, still clutching the parasol, pattered away, 
she continued, “What in the world can a baby like that 
make? And can you imagine her keeping a secret?” 

“I wonder if Helen or some of the kindergarten chil- 
dren could teach her to make those paper baskets or 
lanterns. Still, I am a little afraid to trust Bertha with 
scissors,” said Sister. 

‘ ‘ 0 Sister, I know the very thing, ’ ’ cried Mary. ‘ ‘ Do 
you remember the book that came with my paints? You 
know it has pictures already drawn in it, and maybe 
Bertha could color them.” 

“But how could so small a child manage water-col- 
ors?” 

“I meant for her to use crayolas, Sister. I’ll get the 
book to show you. There are pictures enough in it to 
keep her busy for weeks.” 

Mary ran off, returning after a few moments with 
the book. 

“See, Bertha,” she said to the child, who had again 
joined the group, “wouldn’t you like to paint all these 
pictures for that great friend of yours? He’ll think 
this book a beautiful present.” 

“I’ll paint ’em all tonight afore I go to fleep,” de- 
clared Bertha. “I’ll bedin yight now.” 

“You had better have some supper first. There is the 
bell,” said Sister, rising. 

“Will ’oo show me how yight after supper, Maywy ?” 

“Let us wait until study hour. I have learned all 
my lessons for tomorrow, so I’ll ask Sister to let you 
come up to the study-hall with me; then we’ll color the 
first picture in the book. ’ 9 


The New Boarder 


197 


The study period found the two busy over a large 
rose. 

“What color do you want to make it, Bertha?” 

“Bew,” was the prompt reply. 

“But who ever heard of a blue rose? They are red, 
or pink, or white, or yellow ; but never blue. Let’s make 
it pink. We’ll have to use the red crayola and just put 
it on lightly; then we’ll have pink. See,” and Mary 
proceeded to give Bertha her first art lesson. 

“Oh, let me do it, Maywy, p’ease let me! I tan do it 
all mine own self. I is detting to be a bid dirl, Maywy. 
P’ease let me do it. Give me ze yitty wed stick and let 
me do it.” 

“I’d better finish this petal and you can do all the 
others.” 

But Bertha wriggled impatiently until she got the 
red stick into her own hands. 

“He’ll fink zis am a most beauty pwesent, I jes’ know 
he will,” she murmured, as, kneeling on the seat, she 
worked away vigorously at the drawing on the desk be- 
fore her. Judging from the energy that was being ex- 
pended, Mary concluded that the pink rose was fast 
becoming an American Beauty of the deepest hue. After 
quite a while there was a pause ; then the perfect still- 
ness of the room was broken by a long-drawn sigh, fol- 
lowed by a loud whisper which provoked a general tit- 
ter. 

“I isn’t detting to be so bery bid, Maywy.” 

The pleading tone was more than Mary could resist. 
With one arm around the child and the little hot moist 
hand in hers, she carefully guided the crayola over the 
remaining petals. 

“Now, we must make the leaves and stem green and 
the thorns brown. Then it will be finished.” 

Another deep sigh announced the completion of the 
work of art. 

“We’ll put it away in the box until tomorrow, and 


198 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


after practice I’ll show you how to do the bunnies on 
the next page. There is Sister Benigna looking for you. 
I guess it’s bedtime.” 

Kissing the tired, flushed, but happy little child, she 
bade her good-night, privately resolving to offer her 
Rosary every day that the missing relatives might be 
found. 

The following morning at breakfast, consternation 
took possession of all hearts. Bertha was missing! Sis- 
ter Austin had tapped the bell and had made the dire 
announcement, at the same time inquiring whether any- 
one had seen the child that morning. As no one had, 
she went on to explain that when Sister Benigna had 
gone as usual after Mass to call the small children who 
slept in the nursery, as their dormitory was termed, 
Bertha was not to be found. She had dressed herself 
and disappeared with the pink parasol, but a most 
thorough search of the house had failed to reveal her 
hiding place, neither was she visible from the windows. 
It had snowed all night and the great soft flakes, ming- 
led with rain, were still falling heavily. Several of the 
girls, among them Wilhelmina and Mary, volunteered to 
make another search of the building, and Sister Austin 
chose half a dozen of the seniors as more likely to pro- 
ceed in an orderly manner. 

Disappointed and heavy-hearted, Mary sat down 
again to breakfast. What could have happened to Ber- 
tha? She felt sure that the child was not in the house, 
for it was so large and bright that it admitted of no 
good hiding-places for even an indoor game of hide 
and seek. Then, too, Bertha was not one to hide away 
in corners. As to being out of doors, that was alto- 
gether out of the question. She knew that the little 
one would not put her nose outside on such a morning. 
Suddenly, the thought of the child’s disclosures of the 
previous evening flashed through her mind. Was it pos- 
sible that the unknown relatives might try to gain pos- 
session of her? and was that the reason why Mrs. Ash- 
mere was so strict about the little one ? Might someone 


The New Boarder 


199 


have slipped in and taken her while all but the inmates 
of the nursery were at Mass ? But surely, no one would 
stop long enough to dress the child, and Sister said that 
her clothes and even the parasol were gone. She was 
revolving these thoughs in her mind when she was 
startled by a cry from Wilhelmina, who ran to the near- 
est window, then called, “ Sister! girls! come quickly! 
Such a sight! I caught a glimpse of something pink 
passing this window, and there she is. Don’t let her 
see you watching her.” 

Giving her place to another girl, Wilhelmina darted 
from the room, closely followed by Mary. When the 
two reached the door leading to the yard, they paused 
to watch the queer little figure far down the walk, which 
ran so close to the building as to be invisible from the 
windows upstairs. Bare-headed; an old black shawl of 
one of the Sisters clasped tightly about her neck, its 
ends trailing gracefully in the slush on the walk; her 
feet thrust into a pair of rubbers many sizes too large, 
which flapped as she walked and sent the water flying in 
every direction; the gay parasol held jauntily aloft — 
such was the picture presented by Bertha out for her 
constitutional. 

4 ‘Bertha Ashmere, come in here this minute!” 
shouted Wilhelmina; but the child gave the dark curls 
a decidedly negative shake and went on down the walk. 
Wilhelmina saw that coaxing was necessary. 

“0 Bertha! Pan-cakes for breakfast; if you don’t 
come, they’ll be all eaten up, and you won’t get any.” 

There was a sudden halt in the steady gait as if the 
culprit were deliberating; but present joys were evi- 
dently too alluring, and the promenade was continued. 

“I’ll go out and make her come in. She’ll have her 
death of cold, ’ ’ declared Wilhelmina. 

“Wait a minute. I think I know something that will 
bring her.” 

Making a trumpet of her hands, Mary called, “Your 


200 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


little umbrella will be all spoiled, Bertha. You’d bet- 
ter come!” 

With a wail of dismay, Bertha faced about and made 
all possible speed towards the door ; but the clumsy rub- 
bers so greatly impeded her progress that she finally 
kicked them off, leaving them after her on the walk. 

“ Didn’t I tell you last night not to take that parasol 
out in the rain ” demanded Wilhelmina, dragging the 
child up the steps and depositing her with a vigorous 
shake on a chair near the radiator. 

‘ 1 ’Oo — didn ’t — say — nennyfing — ’bout — snow ! ” in- 
sisted Bertha, between sobs. “0 Maywy, ’oo doesn’t 
fink it am all spoiled, does ’oo V ’ 

“I think I can fix it, so don’t cry. Come upstairs 
with me and get dressed properly. Your slippers are 
soaked.” 

“I jessed mine own self and bwushed mine own hair.” 

“It looks like it. You’re a sight to behold!” ex- 
claimed Wilhelmina, going off into a fit of laughter. 

“What is zat?” demanded Bertha, not knowing 
whether to consider it a compliment or not. 

“What is what?” asked Mary. 

“Sight to ’hold, what Willy-mean did say.” 

“It means a perfect show,” laughed Wilhelmina. 
“Oh ! just wait until Sister Austin sees you !” 

“I don’t want Sissoo Aus’n to see me if I don’t look 
nice. She’d be on ze shock.” 

The two older children looked questioningly at each 
other. 

Bertha hastened to explain, “Zat’s what Sissoo did 
say ven Willy-mean did tlimb ze twee. She did say, 
‘ Willy-mean, turn down ! I is on ze shock at such ’havior 
in a dweat bid dirl like ’oo ! ” 

“Well, there’ll be more than Sister Austin on the 
shock at your behavior, young lady. If you don’t hurry 
and get dry clothes on you, they will be sending for the 
doctor and the priest before night.” 


The New Boarder 


201 


“I’ll take her up to Sister Benigna, and you tell Sis- 
ter Austin where I am. I’ve had all the breakfast I 
want,” said Mary. 

“You hardly ate a thing. I watched you,” declared 
Wilhelmina. 

“Oh, I was so afraid she was gone, Wilhelmina. I 
didn’t know how much I love her until they said she 
couldn’t be found. Come, Bertha.” 

As the two went up the stairs together, Wilhelmina 
skipped away towards the refectory. She had not gone 
far when there floated down over the banisters, “Willy- 
mean, p ’ease save me some panny-takes ! ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XI. 


A WONDERFUL. CHRISTMAS GIFT. 

“Good-by, Sister! Good-by, everybody! Wish you all 
a merry Christmas! Hope everyone will have as jolly 
a time as I expect to have myself/ ’ cried Wilhelmina, 
catching up her little leather satchel and stooping to 
give Bertha a last hug. “Good-by, you old sugar-plum ! 
I wish I could take you with me. Wouldn’t mother give 
you the best coddling ever was? Mary! Please mark 
off the last day, the twentieth, on my calendar. It 
hangs near the window in my room. I meant to do it, 
but forgot. I’m so rattled!” 

“Fine! Fine!” cried several of the club members. 

“Now girls, have pity on me this once. Besides, I 
can’t pay it. I’m broke. Goodness! there’s another. 
But truly, I haven’t a cent. I’m only carrying this 
purse for show. If father hadn’t sent Mrs. Farley a 
check for my ticket, I’d have to either borrow from 
Mother Madeline or else walk home. Make out a bill 
for the fines I owe and send it to father. I want all my 
debts paid before New Year’s Day. Sister, please may 
Mary come with me to the parlor? I never met Mrs. 
Farley, and she’ll help to break the ice.” 

“I do wish you were coming, Mary,” she continued as 
they hurried through the hall together. “They’ll all 
be so disappointed.” 

“I want you to explain to Uncle Phil and Aunt Etta 
just how it is. I wrote to them, Sunday, but you can 
tell them better. Of course, while I know Aunt Mary 
thinks a lot of me and misses me when I go away, still 
she has all the Sisters to keep her company. But Uncle 
has only me, and he always comes out here for the Mid- 
night Mass, and then he goes down to the Chaplain’s 
house and comes back in the morning for the other 
Masses. We have breakfast together, and he usually 
202 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


203 


stays here with me most of the day, or maybe in the aft- 
ernoon we go in to the city and I stay with' him for a 
few days. There are some little girls he likes to have 
me visit, and they come to see me, and he takes me to 
places, and we always have such a good time together. 
So, you see, I really couldn’t think of leaving him.” 

“I wonder what mother will say to these beauties,” 
said Wilhelmina, stroking the handsome muff, which, 
with the collar, was her gift from Uncle Frank and 
Mary. “I never owned a set of furs in my life. It is 
too warm for them down home, but I tell you they are 
mighty comfortable in this awful climate.” 

“I didn’t know whether you cared for mink, but I 
thought it would go well with your black velvet coat and 
hat.” 

“There isn’t anything I like better. But here we are 
— do say something so I won’t feel like such a goose. 
Imagine traveling with a person you never met before. ’ ’ 

“But I went all the way with Uncle Phil, though I 
had never met him before, and we had a beautiful trip, ’ ’ 
urged Mary, reassuringly. 

“Oh, that was different,” declared Wilhelmina, as 
they entered the parlor. 

Mother Madeline was there to introduce them to Mrs. 
Farley, a friend of Mrs. Marvin’s, in whose company 
Wilhelmina was to travel as far as Richmond, Virginia. 
There she would meet Phil and Harry and continue 
the journey with them. 

“I do not like to hurry you,” said Mother Madeline, 
consulting her watch, “but if you miss the next train, 
you will not be able to make the desired connections in 
New York. You little girls were a long time saying 
your parting words.” 

“No, indeed, Aunt Mary, we said them all on our way 
through the hall. The elastic came off Wilhelmina ’s 
hat at the last minute, and Sister insisted on sewing it. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I wanted to pin it to save time, but Sister was 
shocked at the idea,” added Wilhelmina. 


204 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


‘‘Poor Wilhelmina!” laugher Mother, “I can easily 
imagine how happy you are to escape for awhile from 
all these rules and regulations.” 

‘ ‘ It will be nice to sleep until daylight, and not to go 
to bed with the chickens,” responded the child merrily. 

“Good-by, dear. God bless you,” said Mother. “Re- 
member me to all at home, and tell them I wish them 
every Christmas joy and blessing.” 

“May I run down to the gates with them, Aunt 
Mary? The walks are dry.” 

“But I fear you will take cold without your wraps. 
Here— put this shawl around you. Now you may go.” 

By six o’clock that same evening, all but ten of 
Mary vale’s one hundred and fifty boarders had gone 
home for the holidays, and it was a wistful-looking little 
group that sat around the supper table. Of these, the 
eldest was fourteen, and three were under seven. Sev- 
eral of them, like Mary, had really no homes of their 
own, and the others lived, one in Vancouver, another 
in San Francisco, and a third, little Maria Valdez, in 
South America. The large refectory was closed and a 
table was set in the adjoining lunch room, which was 
already prettily decorated with ivy and holly. 

‘ ‘ I have such an interesting story to read to you after 
supper,” announced Sister Austin, brightly, “and to- 
morrow and the days following I have any amount of 
work for you older girls to do in the recreation room. 
I shall need Bertha, Helen, and Josephine upstairs, but 
I suppose you can get along without them, can’t you 
Margaret?” to the tall girl at the head of the table, 
who shared with Mary the honor of having spent three 
Christmas vacations at Maryvale. 

“Yes, Sister, if you need them,” replied Margaret, 
with a knowing smile. 

Some of the others who were away from home for 
the first time and knew nothing of the fun in store for 
them, looked rather downcast at the prospect of begin- 
ning the holidays with work of any kind; but the sud- 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


205 


den brightening of the faces about them, relieved their 
minds of all anxiety. 

The Sisters did all in their power to prevent the 
children from giving way to loneliness, and old Dan 
took it upon himself to provide the largest and finest 
tree that he could find in the country round. Uncle 
Frank insisted on sending the trimmings, which consisted 
not only of the regulation tinsel ornaments, candy, and 
popcorn; but of nuts and fruits — white grapes, pears, 
oranges, and great bunches of raisins — besides presents 
for each little girl, which had been carefully selected by 
him and Mary one memorable Saturday when they went 
shopping together. The getting these things ready was 
the work alluded to by Sister Austin, and thus it was 
that on the morning of Christmas eve, the seven little 
girls sat about a large table in the recreation room, 
filling the last of the fancy boxes and tarlatan bags. 

“Do we have the tree in here?” inquired Catharine 
Ford. 

“Yes, up at that end in the big bay window. We all 
hang our stockings around the chimney at the other end, 
and in the morning, after the third Mass, we come down 
here and get our presents before we go to breakfast,” 
explained Margaret. 

“But I thought we had Midnight Mass,” said Isabel. 

“We do. Mary, you begin at the beginning, and go 
through the program for them,” said Margaret. “I 
can't work and talk, and you can. By the way, did the 
last one in lock the door? We don’t want those three 
babies surprising us at this work.” 

“Yes, I locked it, but they are too busy in the dormi- 
tory to think of coming down here. They have all their 
stockings spread out on their cribs, and they’re measur- 
ing to see which one is the biggest. I didn’t tell them 
Sister has an immense tarlatan one for each of them. 
Just as well to keep them out of mischief one way as 
another,” declared Florence Berkeley. 

“Mary, do tell us all that we are going to do.’ 


206 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Well,” began Mary, “when we finish here, if it is 
eleven o’clock, we are going up to the Chapel to get 
ready for Confession, because Father Hartley wants to 
hear us this morning so as to leave the afternoon for the 
people in the neighborhood. You know there is no 
church in the village, and that is why the few Catholics 
come here to Mass. After dinner we get our clothes 
ready for tomorrow. We don’t have to wear our uni- 
forms, but can put on any dress we like. Most of the 
girls don’t bring anything but their uniforms and a 
white dress for entertainments, so we always wear the 
white ones Christmas. But if you have one you like 
better, you can wear it. After we get our things all 
spread out and see that there are no buttons off our 
shoes and all that, we can go out to play if we want to, 
but sometimes Sister needs some of us to help her in the 
sacristy or about the crib.” 

“Oh, I hope I’ll be one of those to help her,” cried 
Catherine. 

“Sister asked me to come up today for awhile, but 
you can go in my place, if you like. Uncle Frank phoned 
this morning and wants me to attend to something for 
him, and that will be the only time I can do it. Now, 
where was I? Oh, yes! Then about half past three, 
Patrick drives around with the big old sleigh, and we 
all squeeze in and go with him to leave Christmas baskets 
at the homes of the poor. By the way, we must decide 
on the hymns and songs. We all get out of the sleigh at 
each house, and stand outside the door and sing. When 
we get back here, we just have time before supper to 
hang up our stockings. Santa Claus comes here early. ’ ’ 

1 1 Pooh ! Santa Claus ! ’ ’ cried Florence, the youngest of 
the group. 

“All right! You just wait till tonight. If you 
don’t believe in Santa Claus after what you see then 
” said Margaret. 

“Well, I won’t, so you needn’t be trying to fool me” 
declared Florence. 

“We’ll see.” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


207 


“At five o’clock,” continued Mary, “we have supper. 
Then Sister reads about the first Christmas night, and 
at half -past six we go to bed so as to be ready to get up 
for the Midnight Mass. Sister calls us about a quarter 
past eleven, and oh! you never were at anything so 
grand as the Midnight Mass. After it is over, we have 
a nice lunch, then we go back to bed, and at six o’clock 
we get up for the other two Masses; after that we come 
down here to get our presents.” 

“Oh! I wonder if my box came,” cried Edith Burns. 

“Yes, it did. I saw it in the room next to the office. 
It’s a great, big one; but Bertha’s ! she’ll need a stock- 
ing as big as a seven league boot to put her things in.” 

“You girls that talk about Santa Claus,” interrupted 
Florence, “what about all these things that Sister said 
Mary’s uncle sent?” 

“But Doctor Carlton is one of Santa Claus’ assist- 
ants; didn’t you know that?” cried Margaret. “He 
helps to look after this place and one of the big hospitals 
in the city. Dan is an assistant, too. Just you wait!” 

At this moment they were startled by a loud knock at 
the door. 

“For goodness’ sake, girls!” cried Isabel, “don’t open 
it till we cover up these things.” 

“It can’t be those little ones,” insisted Mary. “They 
would never stop to knock.” 

A deep voice from the hall reassured them. Margaret 
opened the door. 

“Oh, come in, Dan,” she cried, as the little bent fig- 
ure of the gardener appeared in the doorway. He en- 
tered, dragging a huge tree. 

“What a beauty!” exclaimed the children. “Did you 
ever see one so grand!” These and similar remarks 
caused the old gardener to beam on the little group. 

“I suppose you want it in its usual place, Miss Mary. 
Yes, I see you have the stand ready,” he said, proceed- 
ing to the far end of the room, where he set the tree 


208 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


firmly in the opening in the center of what seemed to be 
a circular metal box. “Now, wind her up, Miss Mary, 
and let’s see if she’s in good order. If she needs oiling 
or anything, now’s the time to do it; not tonight when 
the little old gentleman himself appears on the scene,” 
he continued, winking knowingly at the eager curious 
faces about him. 

Mary crept in under the low-spreading branches and 
turned something on the circular box. She had hardly 
rejoined the children, who stood in silent expectancy, 
when the new-comers among them were surprised to hear, 
issuing from the box, the sweet strains of the Adeste. 
At the same time, the great tree began slowly to revolve. 

“It’s beautiful just as it is without any of the things 
on it,” cried Mary, clapping her hands delightedly. 
“It’ the very finest one we have had, Mr. Daniel.” 

“Right you are, Miss Mary. I’ve had my eye on that 
same tree for five years past, and you ’ll search the man- 
sions of New York City, from Battery Park to Fordham, 
without finding one to compare with it,” declared Dan, 
rubbing his horny old hands gleefully as he turned to 
leave the room. Mary accompanied him to the door. 

“Mr. Daniel, do you think you could spare an hour 
or so this afternoon to help me attend to an errand for 
Uncle? Aunt Mary said to ask you. He has sent a 
big wooden box of things for Mrs. Rooney and her poor 
crippled boy, and I thought we could put it on my sled 
and take it down there after dinner.” 

“To be sure we can, any time you say.” 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Daniel. Suppose we go about 
two o’clock. The box is in the vestibule at the side 
door, and I will be there at the right time. Uncle 
doesn’t want the girls to know.” 

“All right, Miss Mary, mum’s the word. Your uncle 
is one of these men who don’t let their left hand know 
what the right’s doing. No blow or show about him!” 

At this moment, the other girls, who had evidently 
been plotting something, ran towards them. 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


209 


“Dan, before you go will you please do us a favor ?” 
asked Margaret. 

‘ ‘ Certainly I will. What is it ? ’ ’ 

“Bertha and the two other little tots are upstairs, and 
we want you to talk to them through the speaking tube 
and make believe you’re Santa Claus. Will you, please?” 

“I will, indeed,” said Dan. “Anything to add to the 
fun. ’ ’ 

“I’ll call Sister first,” said Margaret, “and ask her 
to put Bertha on a chair so she can hear you. I ’m dying 
to know what she will say. You must tell her to talk 
loud, Dan, so we can all hear.” 

In the dormitory the three little ones were busy around 
a small table writing letters to Santa Claus, when the 
electric bell called Sister to the tube. 

“Someone wants to speak to Bertha,” she announced. 
* * Come, stand on this chair so you can reach the tube. ’ * 

Bertha promptly climbed on the chair. 

“Who is ’oo?” she inquired; then, pale with excite- 
ment, she turned to Sister, exclaiming, “0 Sissoo! it’s 
Sandy Tlaus and he wants to talk to me !! ” 

“Well, talk to him, dear. Don’t be afraid.” 

‘ ‘ Ess, Mister Sandy Tlaus, ’ ’ quavered Bertha, ‘ ‘ zis am 
me. ’ ’ 

“What are you doing up there?” inquired the deep 
voice. 

“I was witing ’oo a yetter, and -Helen and Josy-feem 
am witing one too, and Josy-feem did say zat ’oo tan’t 
wead my witing.” 

“You needn’t be afraid of that, my dear. I can read 
it upside down.” 

At this, the merriment at Dan ’s end of the line bubbled 
over. 

“Oh, am zose ’oor weindeer laughing? Zey laughs 
most like yitty dirls, don’t zey?” said Bertha, who waxed 
more sociable as her fear of her mysterious friend abated. 
“I wis’ I tould see zem.” 


210 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


1 ‘Well, you’ll see them this evening if you keep your 
eyes open. But what about those letters? It seems to 
me you are rather late with them. Besides, I received 
some from you last week. ’ ’ 

“But we finked of some more fings zat we want, ,, 
piped the child. Then aside, to her companions, ‘ ‘ Hurry 
up, twick! He did say we is most too late!” at which 
dire threat, Helen and Josephine fell to writing with 
renewed energy. 

“Perhaps you’d better tell me what you want?” con- 
tinued the deep voice. 

“All I want am a yitty boat so I tan go to Hebben 
wif muzzer.” 

“God bless the poor baby,” muttered Dan, “she’s 
asking for her own casket.” 

Bertha caught the sound of the last word. 

‘ ‘ No, no, Mister Sandy Tlaus, not a basket, but a yitty 
white boat wif ropes so it will go down in ze dark. I 
isn’t afwaid, ’tause muzzer will hold me,” insisted the 
child. 

Dan drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and 
there was a long silence. 

“But don’t you want a dolly or some candy?” he at 
length asked. 

“Maywy lets me play wif her dollies; but oh, Mister 
Sandy Tlaus! p’ease bwing Maywy sumpin awful nice, 
ze most beauty fing ’oo tan. And her uncle and her 
auntie and all ze Sissoos and all ze dirls and Danny 
and Patwick.” 

“But I want to ask you about those girls. Are they 
good children?” 

“Some of ’em am bery dood. I twies to be dood, but 
sometimes I fordets and does what auntie telle d me 
not to.” 

“Is Helen good?” 

“Ess,” said the child, thoughtfully, “she am pitty 
dood.” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 211 

“And Josephine ?” 

“Well/’ here there was a long pause, “she isn’t 
nennyfing extwa. She pitty near dot ’panked zis morn- 
ing. But,” Bertha hastened to add, “she is going to 
be dood, always and always now.” 

The children gathered about Dan were almost in con- 
vulsions at the child’s answers. 

“Ask her about me.” “And me.” “And me,” but 
Margaret, looking at the clock, reminded them that it 
was almost eleven, and time to prepare to go to the 
Chapel. 

“Where ’oo is, Mister Sandy Tlaus?” was the next 
inquiry. “Is ’oo up ze chimney?” 

“Not just at present, my dear. Good-by now, and be 
good,” cautioned Dan, hastening away to make up for 
lost time. 

Immediately after dinner, Sister Austin announced 
that the Sister in charge of the wardrobe was waiting to 
give the children their white dresses. When Mary’s 
turn came, the child saw that Sister was taking from 
the shelf the box containing the dress which her mother 
had sent her from Italy. 

“Not that one, Sister, please,” she whispered. “One 
of the others that were made when I went to Wilhel- 
mina’s.” 

Sister looked somewhat surprised, for the other girls 
were clamoring for the prettiest gowns they possessed. 

Going closer to her, Mary added, “I’m saving that 
for my First Communion, Sister.” 

“To be sure, dear. I might have known. Now, let 
me see. Here is one with a blue sash, or would you 
prefer all white?” 

“The blue one, please, Sister. You know, mother con- 
secrated me to our Blessed Lady, so I wore blue and 
white until I was seven, and she made the promise again 
for seven more years. ’ ’ 

“That was beautiful, dear, and I won’t forget to pray 
for the loved mother tomorrow.” 


212 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


‘ ‘ Thank you, Sister, ’ ’ was the response in an unsteady 
voice, and on the way to her own little room, Mary could 
not refrain from thinking how different everything was 
from what she and Uncle had planned. Having finished 
her preparations for the morrow, she went to the sacristy 
to tell Sister Pierre of her unexpected errand. 

“I thought Uncle would send the box straight to Mrs. 
Rooney’s,” she explained. 

“Oh, but this is a much better way,” said Sister, 
cheerily. “It will please her more to have you take it 
yourself. Of course, I shall miss your help, for the other 
girls haven’t your knack of arranging flowers; but I am 
so glad you are going to give those poor people some 
pleasure. Let me see if I haven’t a picture or a medal 
for poor Tommie.” 

The results of Mary’s errand of charity will be seen 
later. 

Half -past three found her among the noisy group that 
stood in the front hall waiting for the coming of Patrick 
with the sleigh. A sprig of holly, fastened to the cap 
or muff of each, gave a Christmasy air to the little party. 

“I haven’t been out today, but it looks cold. Are you 
all sure you have plenty of wraps?” inquired Sister 
Austin, going from one to another, fastening a collar 
here and a button there. 

“Does ’oo fink I is all wight, Sissoo?” asked Bertha, 
presenting herself for inspection. 

“As far as I can see, there is absolutely nothing to be 
desired in your case. With the exception of your nose 
and cheeks, Jack Frost will have a hard time to find a 
place to nip,” laughed Sister; for the child, attired in 
cloak, pointed cap, mittens, leggings, and muff, all of 
white fur, looked for all the world like a little Eskimo. 

“I hear sleigh-bells. He’s coming,” cried Isabel, 
flinging open the door and running out on the porch, 
closely followed by the others. 

With a great flourish and a loud blast of his horn, 
Patrick drew up at the steps. The big, old-fashioned, 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


213 


double-seated sleigh, which had been in the Carlton fam- 
ily for years, and had carried many a merry party about 
the avenues and parks of old New York, had been pre- 
sented by the Doctor to Maryvale some years previous. 

My ! don ’t Buck and Brownie look gay ? ’ ’ cried 
Florence. 

“I wonder if they know they are all dressed up,” re- 
marked little Helen. 

They do that, ’ ’ replied Patrick. ‘ ‘ If you could have 
seen them looking out of the corner of their eyes while 
I pinned those rosettes in front of their ears, and fas- 
tened the bits of holly to the harness, you’d say they 
were as proud as peacocks. In you go, my little polar 
bear,” he continued, lifting Bertha to put her into the 
sleigh. 

“0 Patwiek, p’ease let me sit by side of ’oo and help 
to make ze hossies wun.” 

“All right.” 

“May I sit in front, too, Patrick? Then there’ll be 
more room for the others back here,” said Mary. 

“To be sure you can,” replied the good-natured driver, 
slipping a small tin horn into Bertha’s hand. “Blow 
that, now, whenever you get a chance.” 

“I thought Bertha was mad at him since the time she 
saw him killing the chickens,” whispered Catherine to 
Isabel. 

“Oh, they made up long ago, when he gave her one 
of the little kittens. Wonder what she’d say if she heard 
about the turkeys?” 

“ Sh ! she ’ll never know the difference, so don ’t en- 
lighten her,” cautioned Margaret. 

“For goodness’ sake, girls! don’t put your feet into 
the Christmas baskets,” cried Isabel in alarm. 

‘ ‘ I put the baskets as far under the seats as I possibly 
could, ’ ’ said Patrick, turning around, 4 ‘ but, asking your 
pardon, there’s lots of people in the world that’s always 
putting their foot into something, so I’d advise you to 


214 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


be careful back there. Now Bertha, let’s hear the sound 
of that, ’ ’ and with a loud blast of his own horn, he shook 
the reins and the horses started briskly down the drive. 
At the same time, the children, turning to wave to Sister, 
who stood in the doorway, lifted their voices in one of 
their pretty Christmas carols, Bertha supplying all nec- 
essary accompaniment by vigorous toots of her new toy. 
Soon they had left the Convent gates behind them and 
were speeding along the main road. 

“0 girls!” cried Isabel, “I have a most beautiful 
scheme for the holidays.” 

‘ 1 Out with it, then, ’ ’ said Margaret. ‘ ‘ I ’ve been trying 
for a week to think of some way to amuse ourselves so 
there won’t be anyone moping around in corners with 
a tear in her eye, like some folks did last year, ’ ’ glancing 
at Josephine. “ There is a good reason for every one of 
us having to stay here during these holidays, and I don ’t 
see why we shouldn’t get all the fun out of them we 
possibly can.” 

“Now Josephine, don’t begin,” exclaimed Catherine, 
as that young lady rose to her feet and began to search 
for her handkerchief to wipe away an imaginary tear. 

“I don’t care, I’m lonesome right now,” insisted 
Josephine. 

“You don’t look much like it, so there’s no use try- 
ing to squeeze out any tears over it. Besides, they’ll 
freeze on your face and make icicles, so you’d better sit 
down and hear Isabel ’s plan. ’ ’ 

“Well, I thought if each of us older girls took turns 
at giving a function of some kind ” 

“But what is zat?” inquired Maria Valdez in a puzzled 
tone. ‘ 1 1 know not if I haf one what you call a function 
to gif you.” 

“0 Maria, Isabel just means for each of us to give 
some kind of a little party, or entertainment, or feast.” 

Maria nodded, saying, “Oh yez, I can gif zat.” 

“You see, we can have one every afternoon,” con- 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


215 


tinued Isabel, “and each one of us will have to send out 
invitations, and plan games or something to entertain 
her guests, and give some kind of a prize — any little 
thing will do — a pretty ribbon, or something she gets 
off the tree; and she must serve refreshments — we’ll all 
have enough candy and goodies to do that ” 

“But why can’t we little girls be in it?” insisted 
Helen. 

“Why, of course you’ll be in it, but I didn’t know 
w T hether you could get up a function or not. You’ll be 
invited to all of ours, you know.” 

“Huh!” said Josephine, tossing her head, “I guess 
Helen and I are the only ones who have dishes to serve 
’freshments on. You’ll all have to use box covers for 
plates, and pieces of stiff paper for spoons. Yes, I guess 
we can have a funkshow as well as any of you and we 
won’t invite you, so there.” 

“But they are going to invite us, Josephine, and I’m 
going to invite them to mine, and I’ll lend them my 
dishes if they want them, too,” declared Helen, the 
peaceful. 

“But — but ” gasped Josephine, altogether taken 

aback at this desertion on the part of her comrade. 

“Good for you, Helen! I’ll help you write your in- 
vitations. And maybe we will be glad to borrow your 
dishes. Of course, Mary has her set, and Wilhelmina 
said I could use her tea-things, but yours may be needed, 
too.” 

Bertha, who by this time had wriggled about on the 
seat until she commanded a view of the group behind 
her, now frowned down in righteous indignation on the 
redoubtable Josephine. 

“ Josy-feem,” she began in warning tones, “ Josy-feem, 
I told Sandy Tlaus zat ’oo was going to be a dood dirl 
always, and always, and always ; and now ’oo is as bad 
as nennyfing. If ’oo don ’t det dood yight twick, ’oo will 
find a bundle of ’witches in ’oor ’tocking.” 

At which dismal prophecy, Josephine’s temper showed 
signs of improvement. 


216 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“But Isabel,” said Margaret, when the girls, who had 
vainly tried to conceal their amusement, recovered their 
composure, “it seems to me it will be a good deal for 
one to get a party ready all alone.” 

“I thought of that, and we can manage it this way. 
We shall draw numbers, and whoever is number one will 
have to be ready the second day after Christmas — Fri- 
day afternoon. Each of us can ask one girl to help her 
prepare things. Remember, we must all dress up just 
like for a real function, and if the hostess asks us to 
play or sing, we must be polite and do it. We’ll have 
to send our regrets or acceptance, too. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But there won ’t be any regrets, ’ ’ laughed Margaret. 
“We’ll all come, you may be sure.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to send my regrets to some of 
you,” spoke Mary from her lofty seat. “You know I 
always spend part of the holidays with Uncle in the city. 
I may go back with him tomorrow evening and stay over 
Sunday. He likes me to visit the girls I know in town, 
and I always have a little party and invite them. I 
didn’t expect to have one this year, but Uncle thinks we 
ought to do what we know mother would like best, so I 
guess I am to have it. ’ ’ Mary sighed, and there was an 
uncomfortable silence. Then she continued, “Every 
year, Uncle and I have teased Aunt Mary to let all the 
girls who stay here for the holidays, come to my party ; 
but she won’t listen to us at all, and only lets me take 
one with me, — the one who is in my own class. This year 
there isn’t anybody here in my class, but I know the 
one I’m going to ask for,” she declared, hugging the 
little figure beside her. 

“See here,” interrupted Patrick, “what’s the matter 
with me giving one of those junkshops, myself, and in- 
viting the crowd of you. Mine will be an outdoor affair, 
and you needn’t be dressing up in your best togs for it, 
either.” 

‘ ‘ 0 Patrick, do you really mean it ? ” cried the children. 

“Of course I do. So any day you have nothing par- 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


217 


ticular to do, just let me know and I’ll give my junk- 
shop.” 

As the sleigh jingled merrily through the streets of 
the village, everyone paused to watch it pass, and old 
and young waved to the happy party. Patrick knew 
jusd where to stop, and at each poor little cottage he 
helped the children out and carried the well-filled basket 
to the door-step, before which the girls grouped them- 
selves to sing their Christmas carols. Hard-worked, care- 
worn mothers, with a crowd of little ones about them, 
flung open their doors and showered blessings upon the 
little singers, and especially on the good Sisters, who 
had provided for them the one bit of Christmas cheer 
that they expected to enjoy. The girls did not notice 
that, at each cottage, Mary lingered a moment to slip 
into the mother’s toilworn hand an envelope containing 
one of the substantial checks with which Uncle had pro- 
vided her ; nor did they hear the fervent ‘ ‘ God bless you, 
darling,” followed by the words 4 ‘poor, little, mother- 
less lamb,” spoken in an undertone. For the poor of 
the village, who had good reason to know Mother Made- 
line and the Doctor, were all aware of the sorrow which 
had so early come into the life of their little niece. 

“Only one basket left, Patrick, and that’s for Mrs. 
Rooney,” called Margaret. 

“Mrs. Rooney?” repeated Patrick. “She’s a new one, 
isn’t she? We never went to any Mrs. Rooney’s last 
year.” 

“Yes, she’s the poor woman who lives up the road, 
beyond the Convent. She moved there last summer, 
don’t you remember?” 

“To be sure,” said Patrick, turning the horses heads 
homeward, “but I guess we will have to take the road 
through the woods and come down around by her place, 
for these critters think they are going home, and I’d 
never be able to get them past the gates.” 

Amidst much laughter and singing, jingling of bells 
and tooting of horns, they finally drew up at Mrs. 
Rooney’s cottage. 


218 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Sister said we could go in here to see Tommie,” an- 
nounced Isabel. 

Mrs. Rooney stood at the open door to greet them 
and usher them into her little parlor, where Tommie, 
resplendent in a warm red dressing gown and fur- 
trimmed slippers, lay back in an old arm-chair before a 
roaring fire. 

“My!” exclaimed the children, glancing about at the 
unusual signs of comfort, “it looks as if Santa Claus had 
been here, already.” 

‘ ‘ Santa Claus, indeed , 9 7 cried Mrs. Rooney, scornfully. 
“It’s not to any Santa Claus we’re beholden for what 
you see here. ’Tis the blessed Babe of Bethlehem Him- 
self has sent a golden-haired angel and an old man to 
fetch us these grand things. Just feel of that rug under- 
neath Tommie’s feet, and see the fine dress and warm 
coat and gloves and the umbrella and overshoes for the 
wet weather, that I ’m after getting ; and the books and 
puzzles on the table at Tommie’s elbow, and there’s to 
be a fire like this while the cold weather lasts. But 
loosen your coats, children, and take off your warm 
gloves. You’ll not feel the good of them when you go 
out again.” Mrs. Rooney bustled into the kitchen, re- 
turning with a big plate of odd-looking little cakes. 
1 ‘ Tommie wants you all to have some of these Christmas 
cakes. It’s the kind we make in the old country, and it 
wouldn’t seem quite like Christmas with them left out.” 

Her story of the angel and the old man had had a 
subduing effect on the noisy group of children, who spent 
some time examining the various gifts. Their curiosity 
was mingled with reverent awe, as if they half expected 
to discover signs of the supernatural about them. 

“But who could the old man have been, Mrs. 
Rooney?” inquired Margaret, when the striking of the 
clock warned them it was time to take their departure. 

“Did he look like anyone you know ?” asked Catherine. 

“Why girls!” interrupted little Florence. “You are 
very stupid, it seems to me. Who could it have been 
except Saint Joseph!” 


A Wonderful Christmaj Gift 219 

Mrs. Rooney and Mary exchanged smiles. 

“You mustn’t tell,” insisted the latter in a whisper, 
while the children were buttoning their coats and pulling 
on their gloves. “Mr. Daniel will leave the tree at the 
back door, just after dark. You found the box of orna- 
ments and things, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, alanna,” replied the grateful woman, “and a 
hard time I had of it to keep him from seeing them.” 
Then aloud to the children, “Sure, I came near for- 
getting the best of all, children, for the angel not only 
brought all these beautiful things, but announced to us 
good tidings of great joy!” 

“What were they, Mrs. Rooney, oh! what were they?” 

“That a wonderful doctor is coming to see my boy 
and try to cure him,” declared the poor mother, wiping 
her eyes with the end of her well-starched apron. 

“And we will all pray ever so hard that he may,” 
cried the children. 

Lights were twinkling in many of the windows when 
the sleigh swung in between the big gates and sped up 
the drive. Sister Austin, hearing the fresh young voices, 
hurried to the door to meet the little girls. 

“Just in time to hang up the stockings before supper,” 
she announced, as they trooped up the steps and into the 
hall. 

“0 Sister, we’ve had a perfectly splendid afternoon!” 
and all began at once to relate the various incidents 
which had taken place. Sister listened with becoming 
astonishment to the story of the visit of Saint Joseph 
and the angel to Mrs. Rooney’s cottage. Then she led 
the way to the recreation room where, save for the feeble 
glow of the dying embers in the big fire-place, all was in 
darkness. The older girls could just discern the dim 
outlines of the great tree at the farther end of the room, 
but the three little ones suspected nothing. Just as the 
last stocking was hung, the bell sounded for supper. The 
summons was obeyed with alacrity, for Mrs. Rooney’s 


220 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


little cakes had not diminished the hearty appetites 
aroused by the ride in the frosty air. 

When the meal was ended, Margaret assured Sister 
Austin that there was no need of sending anyone to 
them while she went to her supper, and the children 
were loud in promises of good behavior during her ab- 
sence. 

* 1 Sister Damien will be glad of a little extra time this 
evening, I am sure,” replied Sister Austin. “It has 
been such a busy day for her. Suppose you all go up 
to the library to watch for Santa Claus. He should soon 
be here.” 

The windows of the library commanded a fine view of 
the long drive-way. 

“Let’s not turn on the lights,” said Isabel. “We can 
see what is going on outdoors much better if it is dark 
in here.” 

The three little ones climbed up on the broad window- 
sills and the larger girls stood close behind them. 

“Why, where’s the moon?” inquired Josephine. “I 
thought Sandy Claus came from the moon.” 

“Well, I guess if he waited for the moon tonight, he’d 
never be able to do all the work he has to do. He must 
have come down to the earth last night, for it’s Christ- 
mas already on the opposite side of the world, and the 
little Japs and Chinese children are having their pres- 
ents right now. ’ ’ 

“Oh,” cried Bertha, clasping her hands, “I wis’ I was 
a Yap or else a yitty Shynee!” 

“Well, I don’t,” said Florence. “I want something 
better than rice for my dinner tomorrow. I want tur- 
key and cramb ’ry sauce and plum pudding. ’ ’ 

By degrees, the gay chatter gave place to occasional 
whispers and soon an expectant hush settled on the 
groups at the windows. Even the “non-believers” al- 
lowed themselves to succumb to the spirit of the hour. 
Suddenly, Helen pressed her ear to the window pane 
and held up a warning finger. A thrill ran though each 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


221 


little frame when the faint, long-drawn blast of a horn 
was heard coming from the road beyond the gates. Then 
silence for a minute, followed by another blast, louder 
this time and accompanied by the distant jingling of 
sleigh-bells. 

* ‘ He’s tummin’! he’s tummin’!” exclaimed Bertha in 
a whisper, hoarse with excitement ; scrambling to her feet 
on the sill, she pressed her chubby face close to the glass. 
All eyes were strained in the direction of the gates. 

“There!” gasped Josephine, and Florence’s eyes grew 
big as a dark object appeared, far down the drive. 

Soon she could discern the outlines of a large sleigh 
drawn by two dashing reindeer. Then from a window 
above them, a bright light streamed out upon the drive, 
giving the children ample opportunity to see the sleigh 
and its mysterious occupants. On the front seat sat the 
driver, muffled to his nose in furs. The back part of 
the sleigh was filled with evergreen trees and big white 
packs, and in their midst was a roly-poly, little old man 
with a rosy face and a long white beard. 

The sleigh swung around the curve and came to a stop 
in the shadow of a great pine, almost opposite the library 
windows. The old man sprang out, and shouldering a 
tree and an immense pack, staggered across the drive 
and disappeared around the corner of the house. 

“Where’s he going?” demanded Josephine, breath- 
lessly. 

“Why, he has to get down the big chimney into the 
recreation room,” said one of the larger girls. 

“But he’ll be deaded!” wailed Bertha. “Ze fire will 
burn him up!” 

“Sh! don’t let him hear you, Bertha. That fire has 
gone out by this time. Don’t you remember how low it 
was before supper? Besides, he wears big boots so he 
can go anywhere.” 

The reindeer stood pawing the snow and tossing their 
great horns until the driver shook the reins, when they 
began to move slowly around the curve. Soon the cor- 


222 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


ner of the house hid the sleigh from view. At that mo- 
ment Sister Austin entered the room and turned on the 
lights. The children rushed towards her, except Mar- 
garet and Mary, who remained ostensibly to lower the 
shades, but in reality to exchange opinions on the events 
which had just occurred. 

“Who’d ever think old Buck and Brownie would make 
such fine reindeer,” whispered Mary. 

“But how do they carry those big heavy horns on their 
heads, and where do the horns come from ? ’ 9 

“One pair belongs to Father Hartley and the other is 
from the museum upstairs. They’re not a bit heavy, but 
I don’t see how Mr. Daniel gets them to stay on so well. 
Doesn’t he make a cute little Santa Claus?” 

“He makes a much better Saint Joseph, I think,” de- 
clared Margaret, her eyes twinkling. 

“0 Margaret!” exclaimed Mary in dismay. “Who 
ever told you? Uncle doesn’t want anyone to know.” 

“Nobody told me. I just guessed it was so, and now 
I’m sure of it. That’s not fair, is it?” she laughed, 
putting her arm around the younger child. “But I 
won’t breathe a word, truly I won’t.” 

“No, please don’t. That’s the only time I ever see 
Uncle annoyed, when Tom or someone tells something 
good about him.” 

“Hm!” said the older girl. “Some men would be 
glad if someone got out an ‘extra’ about their good 
deeds. ’ ’ 

A sign from Sister called them to join the circle under 
the light, and for a time all was quiet, while she read for 
them Saint Luke’s beautiful account of the first Christ- 
mas night. Night prayers followed in the Chapel, which, 
save for the sanctuary lamp and a dim light back near 
the door, was in darkness. It was only when their eyes 
had become accustomed to the gloom, that the children 
were able to make out the crib with its dark background 
of pines. 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


223 


Sister Austin had no intention of calling the three 
youngest children for the Midnight Mass; but as she 
passed through the nursery on her way to the adjoining 
dormitory, three little heads popped up from their pil- 
lows, and three excited voices whispered, ‘ ‘ Is it time ? ’ ’ 
There was nothing for her to do but to get them ready. 
Bertha was the last dressed, and Mary, who had waited 
to help Sister, took the little one with her to the Chapel. 
As they passed the big clock in the hall, she noticed 
that it was a quarter to twelve, and entering the Chapel, 
she looked eagerly about for her uncle. He always 
waited for her just inside the door, then accompanied 
her to a pew near the front. But tonight she searched 
in vain among the bowed forms in the pews for the 
familiar figure. Had he missed the ten-thirty train? 
If so, she knew there was no possibility of his coming 
until morning. But perhaps he had stopped at Father 
Hartley’s cottage and would come up to the Convent 
with him. Buoyed up by this hope, she led Bertha to 
one of the front pews, taking care to keep near the end 
herself in order to save a place for Uncle. 

“Oh, oh! Maywy, look!” whispered Bertha, excitedly. 
“See Jesus and all ze yitty yambs!” 

“Sh!” said Mary. “If you’re a real good girl and 
don’t talk, I’ll take you over to the Crib right after 
Mass. Sit still and listen to the pretty music Sister is 
playing.” 

The moments sped and poor Mary’s heart sank lower 
and lower as she listened in vain for the step she longed 
to hear. 

“Little Lord Jesus,” she prayed, “it was poor and 
cold at Bethlehem, but You had Your dear Mother.” 

Then she saw that the sacristy was lighted and knew 
that the Chaplain had arrived. The last thread of hope 
snapped, and a big lump gathered in her throat. Sud- 
denly the solemn stillness of the night was broken by the 
first toll of the great bell ringing the hour. The Adeste 
seemed to melt into the Kyrie, the sacristy door opened, 
and Father Hartley took his place at the foot of the altar. 


224 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Mary bowed her head on her hands, but immediately 
raised it in response to a touch on her arm. As if by 
magic the big lump disappeared before she could even 
move to make room for the Doctor, and when he had 
taken his place at her side, she again bent her head and 
pressed her lips to the strong hand which rested near 
her own on the front of the pew. His fingers closed 
over her frail little ones in an affectionate squeeze, for 
his quick eye had detected the unshed tears. He also 
reached around behind her to pat the shoulder of her 
little neighbor, who was vainly striving to repress her 
joy at his arrival. 

At the moment of Communion, when Uncle had left 
the pew to go to the railing, Mary whispered to Bertha, 
4 ‘Tell little Jesus how you wish He would come to your 
heart. ’ ’ 

But Bertha shook her head. “No, no, I want Him in 
my arms so I tan hold Him tight and w ’ap my soft w ’ite 
toat awound Him to teep Him warm. ’ ’ 

“Well, tell Him so,” said Mary, as she bowed her head 
to make her own Spiritual Communion. Bertha imitated 
her as closely as possible. 

When Mass was ended, Mary, with a whispered expla- 
nation to her uncle, led Bertha to the Crib and carefully 
told the child the meaning of all she saw there. Bertha 
listened intently, but suddenly interrupted her with, 
“Ask her to let me hold Him a yitty while, p’ease do, 
Maywy.” 

“But Bertha,” said Mary, somewhat startled at the 
'effect her words had produced, ‘ ‘ that is only a statue of 
little Jesus, — not really Himself. Come, feel this lamb. 
It isn’t alive, you know. It can’t move, or anything like 
that. These statues and things are just to remind us of 
how it all was when Jesus was born.” 

“Oh!” said Bertha, plainly disappointed. 

Mary not knowing what the child might ask next, 
hurried her back to Uncle. Together, the three left the 
Chapel and found Isabel waiting for them in the hall. 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


225 


1 ‘Sister told me to take Bertha down so you can go 
with your uncle, ’ ’ she explained. 

A few moments later when the Doctor was drinking 
the coffee prepared for him in the reception-room, he re- 
marked, “So you thought your old uncle had forgotten 
his little girl, did you?” 

“You know I could never think that, Uncle, but I had 
given up all hope of seeing you tonight. Was the train 
late, or did you get lost in the snow-drifts on the way 
from the station?” 

“Neither,” replied the Doctor. “I was obliged to 
consult Aunt Mary about a wonderful present I have 
for you. By the way, you will not find in your stock- 
ing the usual number of odds and ends that I sup- 
pose little girls have a right to expect for Christmas. I 
had made out quite a respectable list of things which I 
fully intended to purchase this morning, or rather yes- 
terday morning, but my time was so occupied with this 
wonderful gift, that I could think of nothing else. I 
sent a box containing a few books and games, last week, 
but I fear you will pay little attention to them when 
you see this other thing.” 

“Why, whatever can it be? Do give me just a teeny 
weeny hint, Uncle.” 

“Not a word,” laughed the Doctor. “And there ’s 
another point. Don’t come to me in the morning until 
I send for you. It will take me fifteen or twenty min- 
utes to get it in place and in working order. * ’ 

“Hm! that sounds like a machine of some kind,” ob- 
served Mary, thoughtfully. 

“It is the most wonderful piece of machinery I have 
ever seen, and one that your aunt and I can enjoy as 
well as you. 

“Oh, that’s lovely! May I bring Bertha with me to 
see it ? ” 

“You may, if she is with you at the time. But come 
promptly when you get my message, or you will be apt 
to lose some of the best effects . 9 ’ 


226 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


‘‘And you say Aunt Mary knows what it is?” 

“Yes, but you need not expect any light from that 
quarter. She has promised to keep out of your way until 
I send for you. Yes, Father,” as the Chaplain ap- 
peared in the doorway, “I am ready, and I assure you 
that you have come just in time. These women folk 
can’t keep a secret themselves, and they seem determined 
that no one else shall.” 

Mary ran to greet Father Hartley and knelt for his 
blessing. 

“May the blessed Babe of Bethlehem keep you one of 
His little lambs, forever,” said the Chaplain, kindly. 

“And what can you say to an old sinner like me, 
Father?” asked Uncle Frank, taking his place beside 
Mary. 

“God bless you, my son, God bless you,” murmured 
Father Hartley, raising his hand in benediction. 

As the two men stood in the hall, buttoning their over- 
coats, Mary archly remarked, ‘ ‘ Hm ! I have a secret, too, 
and I’m not going to tell what it is, either. You’ll find 
it under your plate at breakfast. ’ ’ 

“Not another pair of slippers!” exclaimed the Doctor, 
looking dismayed. 

“0 Uncle, Uncle! that’s too funny. Just imagine a 
pair of slippers your size under a breakfast plate,” cried 
the little girl going off into peals of laughter in which 
the others were forced to join. “But Father doesn’t 
know our joke about the slippers,” she continued. “When 
I came here to school, Father, I learned to crochet slip- 
pers, and as I had an idea that men wore out things 
very fast, I gave Uncle — let me see, how many?” count- 
ing on her fingers/ ‘ ‘ There were your birthday, Christ- 
mas, and Easter, the first year ; and two pairs the next, 
— yes, I gave him five pairs altogether. There were black 
ones with pink bows, and black ones with red bows, and 
red ones with black bows, and another red pair — you 
see, Father, I didn’t really want to make two pairs the 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


227 


same color, but Sister said I couldn’t be so conscravagant 
as to buy more worsted when I already had enough. ’ ’ 

“Here comes Sister Austin to see why I am keeping 
you so long. Run down to your lunch, and then get all 
the sleep you can before daylight” 

“But Uncle, you are not going without giving me just 
a little bit of a hint as to what that is?” urged Mary. 
“Why, I won’t sleep a wink, I know.” 

“Not a hint will I give you, and if you are sleepy and 
tired all day, you will not be able to enjoy my gift half 
so well. Besides, if you were to try from now until 
doomsday, you would never guess my secret. ’ ’ 

“Try me, Uncle! Give me three guesses and see if I 
can’t.” 

“No, no, no!” declared Uncle, laughing as he opened 
the door for Father Hartley. 

But Mary clung to his arm and made a last attempt. 

“I’ll tell my secret if you’ll tell yours,” she urged, 
coaxingly. 

“Do you hear that, Father? A clear case of bribery! 
Sister, keep the culprit in strict custody until I send 
for her,” and freeing himself from Mary’s grasp, he 
hurried down the steps to overtake the Chaplain. 

“Dear, dear Uncle,” said Mary with a little sigh, as 
she passed through the hall by Sister’s side. “He is al- 
ways planning to make me happy. I wish I could do 
something worth while for him.” 

“But you do many things, Mary, that please him very 
much. Only yesterday, Mother Madeline remarked what 
a little comfort you are to both of them.” 

“Oh, did she say that? I’m so glad she feels that 
way, because no matter what they do for me, I can ’t help 
being lonely sometimes. Uncle and I had planned every- 
thing so differently, and it has all been such a disap- 
pointment. I can’t help wanting my mother, Sister, I 
just can’t!” 

“Of course you can’t, dear; neither do your aunt and 


228 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


uncle expect you to help that. All they desire is that 
you will not grieve so much for her as to make yourself 
positively unhappy. Days like this are apt to be very 
trying to those who have lost their dear ones, but I know 
you will strive to be bright and cheerful, and in that 
way show those who love you so much that you appre- 
ciate all their efforts to make you happy. Do you ever 
try to imagine what Heaven is, especially on a great day 
like this ? Think how many joyful surprises are in store 
for your loved ones on this, their first Christmas there. 
I sometimes wonder if, on this day, our Lord does not 
again take the form of the little Infant in the arms of 
our Blessed Mother ; and I picture to myself those good, 
simple shepherds, surely saints now, and the three Wise 
Men, and all the other saints gathering about Him for a 
special Christmas blessing; and around and over all, 
myriads of bright angels filling Heaven with their Gloria 
in Excelsis. Yes, that is the way I like to imagine 
Heaven on Christmas Day, and it seems to me, thoughts 
like these would soon transform sad memories into a 
feeling of real happiness. Suppose you try it today. ’ 9 

“ You have made it all better already, Sister. What 
you say reminds me of Bertha, when I took her to the 
Crib after Mass. Somehow she got an idea that the 
statues and sheep were living, and she was so disap- 
pointed when she couldn't hold the little Infant and 
wrap Him in her new coat to keep Him warm. O Sister, 
there is something that I've been intending to ask you 
about all day." 

“The day is still very young, my dear." 

“I’m all twisted," laughed Mary. “You see I’m not 
used to being up so late — or so early — which shall I say ? 
But this is w T hat I want to ask. Have you opened the 
boxes that came for the girls ? 9 ’ 

“Yes, Mary, I always do so as soon as they arrive and 
remove from them any of the perishable things that 
should be kept in a cool place." 

“Yes, Sister, but did you find any boxes that haven’t 
anything real Christmasy in them? any with just use- 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


229 


ful things? Of course/ * she hastened to add, “the use- 
ful things are very nice, but it seems to me every little 
girl ought to get something besides them for Christmas. ’ ’ 
“I agree with you, and there is one box which is not 
the least bit Christmasy, as you say. It is for Florence. 
You know she is dependent on her grandmother, a very 
good, sensible old lady, but one who thinks a child should 
have done with toys as soon as she is old enough to go 
to school. She has sent a fine warm outfit of knitted 
goods — cap, jacket, leggings, mittens, and so on — her 
own work and beautifully made, it is true, but all of a 
dull slate color without so much as a red scallop or a 
brass button to relieve the monotony. ’ ’ 

“I know the very thing, then. Do, please, wait here 
just a minute, Sister.” Mary ran swiftly away, return- 
ing immediately with a flat square box. “There are 
colors enough in this to please anyone. Liza and Tom 
gave them to me my last birthday,” she explained, as 
Sister removed the cover, displaying a number of hand- 
some hair-ribbons. 

“My dear child, I cannot think of taking all these 
from you. One or two will be quite sufficient. ’ ’ 

“But Sister, Florence may as well have them, because 
I never intend to use them myself. That’s not a very 
generous reason for giving them away, is it?” she said, 
laughing. “But really, you know I never wear anything 
but blue and white, and these are pink, green, and every 
color of the rainbow. There were two blue ones in the 
box, and I always make a point of wearing one of them 
when I go to the city, so as not to hurt the feelings of 
Liza and Tom. Please take them, Sister, and let us go 
down to see if there isn’t something that will do for 
Florence in the box Uncle sent.” 

“We must be quick, or the others will think we are up 
to some mischief,” said Sister, unlocking the door of 
the recreation room and turning on the light. 

“Oh, isn’t the tree beautiful, Sister! Here is my box. 
Hm! Uncle said a few books and games, and there are 


230 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


enough here for a good size orphan asylum. I hope 
these won't be too hard for Florence; but if they are, 
some of us can read them aloud to her. And here are 
some games she will like, I know. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘Now, Mary, one book and one game will be all I 
shall take.” 

“0 Sister, that looks so skimpy. Take two of each 
and this funny toy. It winds up somehow. Uncle al- 
ways puts in something ridiculous. Sister, you will have 
to watch Florence’s letters to her grandmother so she 
won’t mention these things,” cautioned the little girl, 
replacing the cover on her box and rising to her feet. 
4 ‘Why! there’s another big wooden box for me. I won- 
der who sent that, ’ ’ she exclaimed, walking around it to 
look for the sender’s name. 

“That’s not fair,” laughed Sister, turning off the 
light. “You came here to play Santa Claus, not to see 
what he brought you. Come, give me your hand so you 
won’t fall over anything in the dark.” 

Carefully locking the door again, the two conspirators 
hurried to the lunch room to join the girls there. A 
funny sight greeted them. Bertha, her dark eyes flash- 
ing defiance and indignation, was seated facing the door. 
Her chubby arms, like a rampart, encircled Mary’s 
plate, which was piled high with all kinds of good things. 
The moment she spied Mary she cried excitedly, 
1 1 Turn twick ! oh, turn twick ! I is having a most drefful 
time saving ’oo nennyfing to eat. Zose dirls did say zey 
is going to eat it all up,” at which accusation the girls 
protested loudly that they were only joking. 

“ ’Oo wasn’t joking — ’oo meaned it!” insisted the 
child. 

“Why Bertha!” exclaimed Mary, “it was ever so 
good of you to remember me, but I couldn’t eat all that 
in a week. I’m afraid you didn’t leave anything for 
the other girls.” 

“Ess, zey ate ev’yfing all up, and ze n,” in scornful 
tones, “zen zey did say zey would eat ze chups and 
saucers.” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 231 

“But you haven’t taken a bite yourself,” declared 
Mary, spying the untasted sandwich on the little one’s 
plate. “Here, you must have some of my figs and 
grapes and candy and these cute little cakes; and then 
we had better pass the rest around, hadn’t we?” 

Oh, it am all wight now, ’ ’ said Bertha grandly, cast- 
ing a triumphant look upon her vanquished neighbors. ‘ ‘ I 
only wanted ’oo to have some of ev’yfing. ” 

The substantial lunch being finished, the children were 
hurried back to bed. 

It was broad daylight when the third Mass was over, 
and the girls hastened to the recreation room to make 
the most of the time before breakfast. After the excite- 
ment of opening the Christmas boxes had somewhat sub- 
sided, Mary looked about for Bertha, but the child was 
not in the room. 

“Sister took her away just as we left the Chapel,” ex- 
plained Helen. “I guess she wanted to fix Bertha’s 
hair. There wasn’t time to do it right before Mass.” 

Mary, earnestly hoping that the child would join them 
before she was summoned to the parlor, turned to the 
box which, some hours before, had so aroused her 
curiosity. 

“It’s from Uncle Phil and Aunt Etta! I might have 
guessed. I do hope our things will get there in time. 
Here’s a card. ‘To Uncle Frank and Mary from all of 
us.’ I won’t look at a thing until he’s here to help,” 
she resolved, and, replacing the cover, turned to survey 
the scene about her. The delight of little Florence over 
the books and games more than repaid Mary for the sacri- 
fice she had made. Then one of the Sisters appeared in 
the doorway with the expected message. 

“Which parlor, Sister?” asked Mary, eagerly. 

“The west one, Mary.” 

“Do you know what it is, Sister? Have you seen it?” 

“I have, and I haven’t,” replied Sister, mysteriously. 
“That is, I have seen part of it, — enough to know that 
you will never grow too old to enjoy it. ’ ’ 


232 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


* ‘ My, my ! whatever can it be ? Please excuse me, Sis- 
ter, but I really must run the rest of the way. I just 
can’t walk like this,” and the child sped down the hall, 
only pausing a moment to knock at the closed door of 
the west parlor. There was no response. Opening the 
door, she was surprised to find no one in the room. In 
the middle of the floor, however, stood a large hamper, 
about the size and shape of a steamer trunk. 

“Sister must have made a mistake,” thought Mary. 

‘ ‘ There ’s no one here. Uncle plainly said the thing was 
a machine and that he wanted to have it in working 
order. I’ll try the east parlor.” She crossed the hall 
to the big room opposite. No one there, either, and no 
sign of a machine of any kind. “ I ’ll have to ask Sister 
again,” she said, returning to the hall. But Sister was 
nowhere to be seen. Indeed, everything was so unusually 
quiet that Mary began to suspect a joke. “Guess I’ll 
take a look at that basket, anyway. Uncle is up to some 
trick, I know, and he’s hiding somewhere so he can see 
all I do. He never before made such a fuss even when 
he gave me something really beautiful, so it makes me 
think all the more that this is a joke. Well, I’ll let him 
have all the fun he wants,” she declared, returning to 
the west parlor to take a closer look at the hamper. 4 1 No 
name on it,” she observed, unconsciously speaking aloud. 
“Mercy on us! it’s something alive V 7 retreating a few 
steps, still keeping her eyes fixed on the basket. “It 
moved, I know it did. It’s something white,” she con- 
tinued, walking slowly around the mystery at a safe dis- 
tance from it. “Maybe it’s a dog. But a dog isn’t a 
machine — still, I s’pose anything alive is a most wonder- 
ful machine. Oh, I just must see what it is ! ” falling on 
her knees beside the hamper and beginning to untie the 
rope with which the cover was fastened down. “Uncle 
knows I don’t like knots,” she murmured, as she paused 
to rest and examine her aching fingers. ‘ ‘ If that animal 
has to be tied down like this, I had better be ready to 
run when the cover flies off.” She looked about her to 
see in which direction lay her surest means of escape. 
“But Uncle would ’t give me anything that would hurt 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


233 


me,” she went on, still speaking aloud. “I wonder if 
they’ll let me keep a dog here. Mr. Daniel would take 
care of it for me. Well, whatever it is, I think I’ll untie 
that last knot standing up.” She rose to her feet and 
again looked around her. “I wonder where Uncle is 
hiding. He’ll laugh and tease me for being such a cow- 
ard ; but really, that animal is getting terribly frisky. ’ ’ 

As she again bent over the hamper, she noticed a card 
lying close beside it on the floor, and picking it up she 
read, “ Wishing my dear sister every Christmas joy.” 

“Wishing my dear sister — wishing my dear — why, I 
have no sisters or brothers to send me a Christmas pres- 
ent. Wishing my dear sister ” she rubbed her eyes 

and read the words over and over again. What did it 
all mean. 6 ‘ Can it be — oh ! can it be that Uncle has found 
one of the darling babies and this is her present tome?” 
she thought. “But I don’t want presents; I want her!” 
She sprang to her feet and looked about her. “Uncle! 
Aunt Mary ! oh, where are you ! Can it be, oh ! can it 
be?” she cried, once more reading the words pencilled 
on the card. There was no answer to her appeal, and 
she started for the door. Suddenly she paused, for a 
thought had flashed through her mind. “Dear, dear,” 
she murmured, sadly, “what a silly goosie I am. Poor, 
dear Uncle just made a mistake and wrote sister instead 
of niece. I’m glad he didn’t hear me.” Turning the 
card over and over, she returned to the basket; but the 
buoyancy was gone from her step, and loneliness tugged 
at her poor little heart. “I do wish Uncle would come 
help me open it,” she said, wistfully. “It’s so much 
nicer not to be the only one in a s ’prise. But what’s 
the matter with me, anyway? This isn’t my present at 
all. It’s Aunt Mary’s, of course. That’s what Uncle 
means by my dear sister. How glad I am I didn’t open 
it? But where is my machinery? Oh, now I know! 
Sister meant the little parlor away down at the west end 
of the hall. Uncle will wonder what is keeping me all 
this time.” She started from the room, but a sound 
from the hamper made her wheel about and regard it 


234 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


with suspicion. “That sounded like ” again she 

looked at the card, then “Oh!” she cried, running back 
and falling on her knees before the basket, “Oh!” and 
she tugged and strained frantically at the last knot. A 
mighty jerk, the cover flew back, something white 
sprang up, a pair of soft little arms was thrown about 
her neck, and “Happy Twismas! Happy Twismas! I’se 
’oor yitty sissoo!” rang in her ears. 

“I know! I know! 0 Berta! Berta! my own, dear, 
darling Berta ! ’ ’ she cried, over and over and over again, 
as, bewildered and overcome with emotion, she clung pas- 
sionately to the small bundle of animation before her. 

“Ess! ess! Zat’s my name! Berta! not ugly old 
Berfa, what auntie did always say. But why is ’oo 
cwying, Maywy? Isn’t ’oo dlad ’oo found me?” de- 
manded the child in an aggrieved tone. 

“Glad, precious! glad! I’m so happy I don’t know 
what I ’m doing ! ’ ’ 

“Zat’s bery funny. I neber cwy ven I is happy ; only 
ven I falls me down or sumpin,” explained Berta, brush- 
ing the tears from Mary’s face with fingers which did 
not improve its appearance. “And ’oo finked I was a 
doggie, and ’oo was goin’ away, so I laughed a yitty bit 
so ’oo would turn back, and zey was hiding, zey was. 
And now ’oo is my bid sissoo, and I is ’oor yitty sissoo, 
and ’oor auntie is my auntie, and Uncle Fwank is my 
weally Uncle Fwank and not a only make b’lieve, nenny 
more ” 

“Well, well, well! And who ever said there was any- 
thing make believe about me, I should like to know?” 
laughed a big voice behind them. 

Mary sprang to her feet only to find herself imprisoned 
by Uncle ’s strong arm. 

“Now, my little culprit, who says I cannot keep a 
secret, and what about that fine you owe — halloo ! what’s 
the matter here? Surely you two haven’t been at it 
already? Berta, have you been trying to give Mary 
two black eyes at once?” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


235 


The child, who was delightedly hopping about the two, 
paused when she heard her name. 

“Zat’s where I was wiping away ze cwies,” she ex- 
plained, adding apologetically, “and I is afwaid my 
tinners isn’t so bery tlean.” 

That is evident, ’ ’ laughed her uncle. 

“Oh, it was just a beautiful secret, Uncle! — and 
mother? — and Beth?” she demanded breathlessly, look- 
ing eagerly about the room. 

The Doctor paused for an instant, wondering how 
best to frame the words that must crush the newly awak- 
ened hope which shone from every feature of the radi- 
antly happy little face upturned to his. 

“Little one,” he replied tenderly, “will not our joy 
and gratitude for the restoration of even one of our 
loved ones lessen in some degree the sorrow we feel at 
our separation from the others? And can’t you and I 
help each other to rejoice in their joy, which is as far 
above ours as Heaven is above earth?” 

The eager light died suddenly from the dark eyes 
gazing so trustingly into his ; but the child smiled bravely 
up at him despite the huskily whispered, “Yes, Uncle, 
we can.” 

“After a little,” he continued in a cheery tone, “I 
will tell you when and how I learned my secret. But 
here is Aunt Mary. Her hiding-place was farther away 
than mine.” 

“Not so far but what I could see and hear all that 
went on. Indeed, more than once, I was strongly 
tempted to come to your assistance, Mary. Uncle is a 
master hand at tying knots, isn’t he, dear?” asked the 
religious, kissing the child affectionately. 

‘ ‘ I should say he is, Aunt Mary. My fingers ache yet. 
Oh! isn’t it just too beautiful for anything, Auntie? I 
can hardly believe it’s true. Do shake me so I can be 
sure it isn’t all a dream.” 

“I think some breakfast will prove that you are quite 


236 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


wide awake. Come,” she said, taking Berta’s hand and 
leading the way to the breakfast room. 

“Auntie, does Sister Austin know?” 

“No, dear, I did not have an opportunity of seeing 
her, and besides, I felt that you, yourself, should be the 
first to know of it.” 

“Then please let me take Berta down and show her 
to Sister and the girls.” 

1 ‘ One would think they had never seen her, ’ ’ laughed 
Mother Madeline. 

“But she’s different now. Please let me.” 

“Very well, hut hurry back. The breakfast will be 
cold.” 

Hand in hand the two ran down the hall. Entering 
the room where the children were at breakfast, Mary 
cried, “Sister! girls! see! see the wonderful present I 
found upstairs ! ’ ’ 

' Sister was in the act of pouring the coffee, but she 
promptly placed the coffee-pot on the end of the table 
and turned to show a becoming interest in Mary’s gift. 
The children jumped up from their places, for Mary’s 
presents were always worth examining. When, however, 
they beheld both little girls empty-handed, they sat 
down again and laughed heartily at what they considered 
a joke at their expense. Not so, Sister Austin. The evi- 
dences of unusual excitement and joy in Mary’s face and 
voice left her no room to doubt that the child was in 
earnest. With a questioning look, she went to meet 
the two. 

“I mean it, Sister!” cried Mary, somewhat disap- 
pointed at the effect produced by her first announce- 
ment. “She is mine, mine! My very own! Oh, don’t 
you understand?” 

* ‘ God be praised ! ’ ’ exclaimed Sister, devoutly, as the 
truth began to dawn upon her. “My dear child, do you 
mean that Bertha is one of your little ” 

“Yes, yes, Sister!” insisted Mary, impatient at such 
slowness of comprehension. “She is Berta — Berta Set- 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


237 


wyn — my own darling little sister. There never was any 
Bertha Ashmere at all,” and the child threw her arms 
about the little one at her side, hugging her so vehe- 
mently that poor Berta gasped and winked very hard. 

Then followed a scene such as the pictures on the 
wall had never beheld. When the excitement had some- 
what subsided, Mary remembered her aunt’s injunction. 
“We must go now,” she said, “ Uncle is waiting for his 
breakfast. He will come down after awhile to show us 
how to play all the games and wind up the toys and 
everything. Just think,” she went on in a tone of self- 
reproach to Sister, who accompanied them to the door, 
“just think, Sister, she has been here all this time and 
1 never knew she was mine.” 

“My dear little girl, even had you known it, you 
could not have shown her any greater affection and care. 
I have never seen anyone more devoted to her own sis- 
ter than you have been to this little one. The Sisters 
have all remarked it, too.” 

“I couldn’t tell why it was,” replied Mary, “but I 
loved her the minute I saw her, and I have ever since 
been pretending she was my little sister. ’ ’ 

“And I was making b’lieve zat Maywy’s uncle and 
auntie was bofe mine, too,” laughed Berta. 

“So now all the making believe has come true, as in 
the fairy stories, and all you have to do is to live happy 
ever after,” said Sister. 

The two children hurried back to the breakfast room. 

“I insisted that Uncle should begin without you,” said 
Aunt Mary. 4 ‘ He did not have the substantial lunch you 
enjoyed after the Midnight Mass. Berta, we should 
have brought your own chair from the refectory, but 
perhaps we can manage by putting this big book on one 
of these,” and Mother Madeline lifted the child to the 
seat thus prepared. Then she busied herself serving the 
two little girls until the Doctor interfered, sending her 
to her own breakfast. She had hardly left the room 
when Mary jumped up from the table. 


238 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


4 ‘ Uncle, I must send a telegram ! ’ ’ 

1 1 Well, well,” said her uncle gravely, “is it a matter 
of life and death, or will you give me time to finish this 
piece of steak ? ’ ’ 

Mary resumed her seat, laughing. “Oh, it will do 
after breakfast, hut Uncle Phil and Aunt Etta must 
know our good news as soon as possible.” 

“Would it not be better to tell it to them? Telegrams 
are rather unsatisfactory things, I think, ’ ’ replied Uncle 
Frank, his eyes twinkling. 

“But Uncle,” urged Mary, “just think how long it 
will take for a letter to reach them. ’ ’ 

“I said nothing about a letter, did I?” asked the 
Doctor, innocently. “I was thinking of the long-dis- 
tance phone. Surely, an occasion of this kind warrants 
a little bit of extravagance.” 

“Oh, you dear old Uncle,” cried Mary, leaving her 
place to give him a hug. “You always do think of the 
most beautiful plans. Just imagine some men going to 
the trouble of getting that big basket to put Berta in! 
No, they would have sent for me and said, ‘My dear 
niece, this is your little sister, and if you are not good 

to her, I will ’ Then they’d go home and get out 

an extreedishun about the wonderful thing they did. 
That’s what Margaret says some men are like, and her 
father is a news-paper man, so I s’pose she knows. But 
how did you ever find her, Uncle? You haven’t told me 
a word, yet.” 

“The mystery to me is how you and Aunt Mary 
didn’t find her. You two, who pride yourselves on being 
able to guess all my secrets, have lived with Berta nearly 
four months without even suspecting the truth.” 

“I always said she reminded me of someone,” pleaded 
Mary, lamely. “See,” she continued, pulling her locket 
from out the neck of her dress, “isn’t she the image of 
father?” 

“Why, Maywy, where did ’oo det my yocket?” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 239 

* 4 This isn’t yours, Berta. Have you a locket like 
this?” 

‘ ‘ I had one, but Auntie she did say I ’d lose it and she 
taked it away from me,” said the child, sadly. 

4 ‘Thought you might be identified by means of it,” 
muttered the Doctor. 

“Never mind, Berta, you can wear mine until Uncle 
gets yours for you. Come here and let me put it on you 
now.” She fastened the chain about the child’s neck 
and turned again to her uncle for the desired informa- 
tion. 

“Let us first finish our breakfast,” he said, “then I 
shall give you some letters to read. They will tell the 
story better than I can.” 

A short time later, when he had settled himself for 
a smoke in a big rocker, with Berta on his knee, he took 
from his pocket a long envelope which he handed to 
Mary, saying, “There are two letters. Better read the 
shorter one first. It is from your aunt’s lawyer and 
will help you to understand the other.” 

“Hm! it isn’t very good writing for a grown man, I 
must say,” observed Mary, and then in silence she read 
the following : 

Dear Sir : — The enclosed has just been dictated to me 
by Mrs. Herbert Ashmere, the sister of Robert Selwyn, 
your late brother-in-law. You will observe that it is 
unfinished, owing to the fact that the lady, who is seri- 
ously ill, was overcome by a sudden weakness, followed 
by a state of unconsciousness from which she has not 
yet rallied. The doctors say her condition is critical, 
and, as she is most anxious to see you before she dies, I 
urge you, sir, to come with the least possible delay. 

Yours truly, 

George Greydon. 

Mary opened the second paper. It contained no word 
of address, but proceeded at once with the following 
statements : 


240 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


In the Convent of Mary vale, on the outskirts of the 

town of , New York, there is a little child known 

as Bertha Ashmere. I have allowed it to be thought 
that she is the niece of my deceased husband, Herbert 
Ashmere, but such is not the case. The little girl is 
Berta Selwyn, one of the twin daughters of my favorite 
brother, Robert Selwyn. 

I first met the child, with her mother and little sister, 
on board the steamer Helena , where, under an assumed 
name, I became sufficiently acquainted with the mother 
to learn of my brother ’s death and several other facts. 

On account of her resemblance to my brother, I be- 
came passionately attached to Berta; but the child 
seemed to have an instinctive dread of me, and repelled 
all my advances. However, on that awful night when 
the Helena sank, I succeeded in getting possession of her 
and afterwards brought her here, where I strove m my 
own selfish way to make her happy. But she shrank from 
me and never ceased her piteous appeals to be restored 
to her mother. The annoyance this caused me, together 
with my failing health, made me resolve to place her for 
a time at Maryvale. As I was obliged to make the neces- 
sary arrangements by letter, I met none of the Sisters 
until November, when the Superior with a companion 
called to see me. I listened eagerly to their accounts of 
Berta and her little friends, and you may imagine my 
surprise when, in the course of the conversation, I 
learned that my darling was being loved and cared for 
by her own. Nevertheless, I kept my secret, and in re- 
sponse to your sister's inquiries about the child’s rela- 
tives, I assured her that I was the only one remaining 
to her. 

A few words of sympathy, which your sister addressed 
to me before leaving, opened my eyes to the fact that my 
illness was a blessing from a merciful God. As the days 
went by, I began to realize the enormity of the crime I 
had committed and the general selfishness and sinfulness 
of my life. Many a bitter hour did I spend alone with 
these reflections ; but that same Mercy which opened the 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


241 


eyes of my soul, also inspired me with a firm hope of 
pardon. You are probably aware, that I never professed 
any religious belief; but tomorrow I am to be received 
into the Catholic Church. 

The physicians tell me I have not many days to live, 
but I cannot die in peace until I hear from your own 
lips that you and yours forgive me the terrible wrong 
I have done you. I have to tell you, myself ” 

Here the confession ended. 

“You went, Uncle, you went to see her?” asked Mary, 
eagerly. 

“Yes, Mary. Those letters reached me yesterday while 
I was at breakfast, and I took the first train I could get 
to Albany. But when I arrived at your aunt’s home, I 
found that she had been dead some hours. ’ ’ 

“0 Uncle!” cried the child, in a shocked tone. “Then 
she didn’t become a Catholic.” 

“But she had the desire, dear,” he answered, gently, 
‘ ‘ and though she did not regain consciousness for one in- 
stant, the priest gave her conditional baptism.” 

“I’m so glad,” said Mary, with a sigh of relief. Then 
a look of dismay settled on the fair little face, and in 
a distressed voice she went on, “You say she didn’t re- 
gain consciousness, but Uncle, hadn’t she ever told Lena, 
or the priest, or anyone, what it was she was so anxious 
to tell you ? See, here at the end of the letter, she says 
she wants to tell you something. Oh, she must have 
meant about mother and Beth, and didn’t she ever tell 
anyone so they could tell you?” 

“My dear little girl, all that your aunt had to make 
known to me is told in that letter. Of that I am positive. 
She probably wished to say how sorry she was, or some- 
thing of that kind ; but as for giving us any information 
about mother and Beth — why dear, you may rest assured 
that, after getting possession of Berta, she took particular 
care to keep away from mother or anyone else who might 
recognize her. Mary, the one point which has been a 
mystery to me is cleared up at last. No one could ever 


242 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


make me believe that your mother, having once made her 
escape with the children from the stateroom, could be 
induced to return to it for money or anything else which 
she had left there. I knew there must be some grave 
reason for such an act, and there it is,” said the Doctor 
with a nod at Berta, who, at the beginning of this con- 
versation, had slipped from his knee to watch the snow- 
birds hopping about beneath the window. 

“But where was Aunt Bertha that mother couldn’t 
find her?” insisted Mary, piteously. 

“You may be sure your aunt had managed to find a 
place in one of the first boats lowered. ’ ’ 

Mary was silent for a moment. Then the memory of 
Berta’s story of the wreck flashed through her mind. 

“Uncle, it’s all wrong ! There’s some terrible mistake, 
somewhere! Berta told me that her mother and sister 
went down in a little white boat, and that her aunt held 
her tight and wouldn ’t let her go with them ; and every 
time Berta talks about it, she cries and says she’s naughty 
and that her aunt will punish her for telling about it. 
So you see mother couldn’t have been lost in the ship.” 

“But, Mary,” urged the Doctor gently, “if mother and 
Beth were lowered in one of the boats, why were they 
not among the passengers picked up by the rescuing 
steamers? I was assured by the officers and the sailors 
that every one who entered a life-boat was finally put 
aboard one or other of those vessels. No, no, dear, Berta 
is mistaken. In her terror at being separated from moth- 
er, she probably caught sight of someone in a boat who 
resembled her ; or perhaps she dreamed something of the 
kind and afterwards fancied that it had really happened. 
Little children have very lively imaginations. ’ ’ 

‘ 4 How could Aunt Bertha do such a thing ! How dared 
she! Oh! if it weren’t for her, mother and Beth 
wouldn’t ” 

“Hush, child, hush!” exclaimed the Doctor, surprised 
at this outburst. Drawing her to him, he gently strove 
to calm the tumult that was raging in the little heart. 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 243 

“Let me tell you something, Mary, that will help you to 
think more kindly of your poor aunt. She herself 
says that she never practiced any religion. Her mother 
was an invalid, and from the time Bertha was a little 
child she was left to the care of governesses, who took 
great pains that she should become a graceful, accom- 
plished girl, but neglected the one thing necessary. Old 
Mr. Selwyn idolized his only daughter, and on the death 
of his wife allowed Bertha, then a handsome girl of six- 
teen, to go to a fashionable boarding-school of her own 
choosing. It was in vain that your father remonstrated. 
The old gentleman could see no fault in the wilful, pas- 
sionate girl. She loved your father with a jealous love, 
but paid no heed to his brotherly advice and caused him 
endless anxiety. Her selfish affection for him changed to 
hatred when, shortly after she had finished school and 
had taken her place as mistress of her father’s home, 
Robert became a Catholic, and later, married one. She 
succeeded, as you know, in completely turning old Mr. 
Selwyn against his eldest child.” The Doctor refrained 
from adding that it was by accident Robert Selwyn heard 
of his father’s death a month after it had occurred. 

“After your grandfather’s death, she joined your 
Uncle Alfred abroad, and I heard no more of her until 
I received this letter. The lawyer tells me she married 
an Englishman, a Mr. Ashmere. What has become of 
your uncle, he does not know. Now, dear, what could 
one expect from a person brought up as was your poor 
aunt, — pampered and petted, absolutely unrestrained and 
uncorrected. Then, too, who are we to sit in judgment 
on her to whom God has shown such boundless mercy? 
You may be sure that your father’s intercession for heu 
before the throne of God has been largely instrumental 
in obtaining for her the grace of conversion. We owe 
much, also, to the prayers of Aunt Mary and the Sisters. 
Why, just think what it would mean if your aunt had 
not written that letter. We should never have known 
that Berta is ours, and the poor child would have been 
utterly alone in the world. By the way, that little sister 
of yours is quite an heiress. With the exception of a 


244 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


large legacy to the Convent here — a token of gratitude 
for the kindness shown Berta and to insure the prayers 
of the Community for your aunt as a benefactor — and 
a neat sum to faithful Lena, Bertha Ashmere has left 
our little one her entire fortune, consisting of an estate 
in England, her beautiful home in Albany, the old Vir- 
ginia plantation, and investments of various kinds. So 
you and I must resign ourselves to the fate of ‘poor rela- 
tions,’ ” he concluded, laughing. 

“We don’t care for the money just so we have her, 
do we? It was nice, though, yesterday, to have those 
checks for the poor women, and I told Mrs. Rooney that 
you would go down there about three o ’clock. That will 
give her plenty of time after dinner to get things ir* 
order. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Ow-ow-ow ! Oo-oo-oo-oo ! ! ” 

Both sprang to their feet and peered into the dark 
corner behind the chair, whence the uproar proceeded. 

‘ ‘ My poor little child, did I rock on you ! ’ ’ exclaimed 
the Doctor. 

‘ ‘ Ow-ow ! Oo-oo-oo ! ’ ’ was the only response. 

“Please pull the chair out a little, Uncle, so I can get 
in there. That ’s far enough. ” 

Mary crept into the corner and put her arms around 
the cause of all the commotion, saying coaxingly, ‘ ‘ Come 
to Mary and tell her all about it. Did you bump your 
head?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, no, ’ ’ wailed Berta, shrinking farther into the 
darkness and hiding her face against the wall. 

1 1 Come out into the light, do, Berta. If you are hurt, 
Uncle can fix it. He ’s a doctor, you know. ’ ’ 

But no amount of coaxing could prevail on the child, 
and Uncle Frank was obliged to go to Mary’s assistance. 

“Now then, what is the trouble?” he inquired, as he 
seated himself with the little one on his knee. 

“It’s — it’s my nose — oo! oo! my poor, yitty nose.!” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


245 


“Did you bump it, Berta? Do take your hands down 
so Uncle can see it,” pleaded Mary. 

“Oh, no, no! It’s off! Oo ! oo !” 

Mary, really frightened, seized the chubby hands and 
jerked them away from the tear-stained face. 

“Why Berta!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “Your 
nose isn’t off. It’s on just as tight as it ever was. Feel 
it and see.” 

Berta ceased sobbing, while with her thumb and fore- 
finger she gingerly felt the injured member. But the big 
tears began to flow afresh. 

“Oo, oo ! It do hurt anyway, drefful bad, so it do.” 

“Well, tell Uncle how you hurt it. He will put some- 
thing on it so it won ’t hurt any more, ’ ’ urged Mary. 

1 1 1 dot in behind ze chair, an ’ — I — twawled awound ze 
ozzer — side — ’tause I wanted — to smell — zat pitty yitty 
wed fing on ze end of Uncle ’s bwown stick, and ow ! ow ! 
ow ! ” 

The Doctor looked in bewilderment at Mary who whis- 
pered, “She burned her nose on your cigar, Uncle. Your 
hand was hanging down by the chair.” Then aloud, 
“But you must stop crying Berta-, or Uncle can’t cure it. 
Now, shut your eyes and he’ll fix it so it won’t hurt any 
more — don’t wrinkle your nose all up like that; you 
won’t leave any room on it for the medicine.” While 
she talked, Mary went to the table and returned with the 
bowl of powdered sugar. “Keep your eyes shut tight 
and hold real still. ’ ’ Then she motioned to her uncle to 
sprinkle some sugar on the little burned spot. The Doc- 
tor obeyed, smiling at the novel cure. 

‘ ‘ How does that feel ? ” he inquired, seriously. ‘ ‘ Is the 
pain better?” 

‘ ‘ Why, it am all well alweady . ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Mary, I shall engage you as a most valuable assistant. 
By the way, where are those pretty things I found under 
my plate ? Aunt Mary was so worried about that precious 
beef-steak, that she caused them to disappear most un- 
ceremoniously. There they are on the side table.” 


246 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Mary handed him the gifts she and Berta had made 
and seated herself on the arm of his chair, prepared to 
make any necessary explanations. 

“ Maywy ’s first, ’tause she’s ze biddest.” 

“Very well,” replied Uncle. 

“It’s all my very own work, Uncle. Sister would 
have touched it up for me, but I knew you would rather 
have it this way. Of course, she told me where I made 
mistakes, and I tried to correct them the next time.” 

“Yes, I can see the improvement in each drawing. 
You could give me nothing that I would appreciate more 
than this, and I know that you have not been wearing 
out your eyes by artificial light, nor depriving yourself 
of your outdoor recreation to make it. And now,” 
taking up Berta’s book, “what is this work of art?” 

“I made it all by mine own self, too, — all ’cept ze 
first one. Maywy showed me how wif zat one.” 

“My, my!” exclaimed the Doctor, as his eyes fell on 
the pages before him. “These flowers ought to be ex- 
hibited at the Horticultural Show. They would cer- 
tainly take the prize for color ! ’ ’ 

“No, no. Ze hossies am back here. See!” said Berta 
proudly turning the leaves to a barn-yard scene, where 
blue horses, purple pigs, green cows, and pink sheep 
mingled serenely with chickens and ducks of every hue 
in the rainbow. 

“Wonderful! truly wonderful. You have a great 
eye for color, my dear little girl. ’ ’ 

Berta beamed delightedly up at him. 

“Here am some more amanals; zat’s a bear and zis 
am a tagger — does ’oo fink he plays tag wif all ze ozzen 
amanals, Uncle? And here’s a breeza. Isn’t he ze 
tootest yitty fing, Uncle?” 

“Zebra,” corrected Mary. 

“Ess, a zebya. Oh, I wis’ I had a yitty zebya so I 
tould go widing on his back; don’t ’oo, Maywy?” 

‘ ‘ I should say not ! Why, that animal would kick up 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


247 


his heels and send us flying over his head! I’d much 
rather ride in Mr. Daniel’s wheel-barrow.” 

“But Patwick tould hold his heels so he touldn’t tick 
’em up. I finks a zebya is ze bery nicest of all ze 
amanals, eben Danny’s wheely-ba’l. Oh, no, I fordot! 
Ze effalunt am ze bery nicest and ze zebya turns next. 
Here’s ze effalunt, Uncle. Isn’t he toot? Maywy told 
me a story ’bout a effalunt what took care of a yitty 
dirl not as bid as me. Ven ze yitty dirl wanted to go 
to fleep, ze effalunt made a cwadle out of ze end of his 
twunk and zen wocked her to fleep. Wouldn’t ’oo like 
to have a nice bid effalunt wock ’oo to fleep, Uncle?” 

“Hardly,” laughed the Doctor. “In the first place, 
when bedtime comes I am so tired that I need no rock- 
ing to put me to sleep ; and in the second, I much prefer 
a stationary bed.” 

“Berta worked very hard to finish her book, Uncle.” 

“I am sure she did. And you made it all for me? 
Weren’t you very tired?” 

“Ess,” said the child, simply. “Sometimes my poor 
yitty tinners hurt drefful much, but,” slipping her arm 
about his neck and resting her cheek against his, “I 
didn’t mind zat, betause I was makin’ it all for my 
dweat fwend, an’ to’mornin’ I is goin’ to make a bidder 
book for ’oo, ’tause now ’oo is my weally Uncle Fwank. ’ ’ 

“You must rest for a few days before beginning it,” 
said her uncle, much touched by the little one’s affec- 
tion. “Make me another book for Easter.” 

“Uncle,” asked Mary, eagerly, “isn’t it time to tele- 
phone? Oh, I forgot to tell you there is a big box 
downstairs from them, with things in it for both of us. 
I didn’t open mine, because it’s so much nicer for us 
to do it together. ’ ’ 

“Will it not be better to attend to that first? Then 
we can thank them more intelligently for their gifts. 
Besides, I think it will be wiser to phone about noon 
when we can be sure that they are all home from 
Church.” 


248 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


Their appearance in the recreation room was hailed 
with delight. Everyone had something about which to 
consult “Mary’s uncle.” 

“But girls,” remonstrated Margaret, “The Doctor 
hasn’t seen any of Mary’s things yet.” 

So the eager little crowd withdrew to the other end 
of the room, there to await the good man’s leisure. 

“See, Uncle, the box is divided. That half is yours, 
and this, mine. Let’s open all your presents and lay 
them on the table.” 

Together they opened package after package, until 
a handsome desk set lay before them. 

“Now, mine. This is from Aunt Etta. 0 Uncle, 
look,” and the delighted child placed on his knee a flat 
box containing a beautiful lace collar and pair of cuffs. 
“She made them herself. I saw her working on them, 
but thought they were for Wilhelmina. See the dear 
little pin on the collar, a tennis racket from Uncle Phil. 
Oh! aren’t they too good!” 

“By the way, I never quite understood about that 
tennis game. What was it, anyway?” 

“Why,” said Mary with a laugh, “There isn’t much 
to tell about it. I couldn’t disgrace you , and it wouldn’t 
have been polite to beat him, so I thought a tie would 
fix it all right.” 

“Hm,” observed her uncle. “Well, what else have 
you there?” 

“This is for Berta. Where is she? Berta, come see 
what Wilhelmina ’s mother sent you,” she called to her 
little sister, who stood gazing in open-eyed wonder at 
the tree. Mary placed the carefully wrapped package 
in the child’s hands and turned once more to the box. 

“Here is something from Wilhelmina — a brass kettle 
for my tea-table — and here is the stand for it, from 
Phil. He made it himself, Uncle, in the Manual Train- 
ing Class at school. Another flat box — from Harry — 
a calendar. That’s his own work, too, and he says he 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


249 


made up the poetry on it. I think Harry’s a genius. 
Why, that stage-curtain he painted is wonderful!” 

The Doctor tried to hide the smile caused by the re- 
membrance of Harry’s artistic efforts. Fortunately* 
Mary’s head was once more bent over the box. 

“See what the twins sent, — a box of all kinds of 
w'histles. Wasn’t it good of them to make them, Uncle? 
But I really don’t see what I’ll ever use them for. And 
look at the packages and packages of flower seeds Joe 
saved me from his garden. I must ask Mr. Daniel to 
let me have a little corner where I can plant them. 
Here is the very last thing in the box — it’s a picture — 
oh! isn’t that dear!” placing on Uncle’s knee a large 
framed photograph of the three youngest Marvins, — 
Dick and Jack in the goat-cart, and Freddie standing 
proudly at Billy’s head. 

“Nennybody never will look at my Aunt Mandy,” 
murmured Berta, who stood at a little distance with a 
doll representing an old colored mammy in her arms. 

“Why Berta, do you remember Aunt Mandy?” cried 
Mary in surprise. 

“In course I does! ’Oo finks I fordets all my old 
f wends.” 

“Does Aunt Mandy know about Berta, Uncle?” 

“No, Mary. She went early in the week, to spend 
Christmas with her sister who lives somewhere in New 
Jersey, and yesterday morning when I found I would 
not be home for a few days, I sent Tom and Liza to 
join her. So they know nothing of all this.” 

“Won’t they be surprised! You’ll be glad to see 
Aunt Mandy again, won’t you, Berta? But goodness 
me, you poor child! You haven’t seen one of your 
presents yet. Come over here and look at what Santa 
Claus brought you. Uncle told him to bring you that 
rocking chair. Sit down in it and see if it is com- 
fortable.” 

“Twite tumfy, fank ’oo,” said Berta seriously, rock- 
ing back and forth in the pretty wicker chair. 


250 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“And I asked Santa Claus to bring you this lamb. 
See, you can wind him up — so,” and to Berta’s delight, 
the animal ran about the floor baaing in the most nat- 
ural manner possible. 

“Maywy had a yitty yamb!” cried the child dancing 
about, clapping her hands gleefully. 

“Berta had a little lamb,” corrected her sister. “But 
what do you imagine is in this great big box? I think 
I can guess,” she declared, looking knowingly at the 
little trunk and doll-carriage which stood close by. 
“Come, help me lift off the cover. It’s big enough, 
anyway. ’ ’ 

“ Sh ! Maywy. Sh ! Yitty sissoo afleep. ’ ’ 

Mary was startled. “No, Berta, no, it’s only a big 
doll. See!” she insisted, lifting it from the box and 
standing it on the floor. 

“Oh!” said Berta, plainly disappointed. “I fought 
it was my yitty sissoo, turn back to play wif me. But 
she isn’t bid ’nuf.” 

“Does she look like Beth, darling?” whispered Mary. 

“Pitty much. Bef had yitty turls what jumped when 
I pulled ’em jes’ easy, and she always had bew wib- 
bons.” 

“What’s this at the back of her neck. There are 
three things like keys. I’m going to wind one and 
see what happens.” 

Presently, from the doll’s parted lips came quite 
plainly the words, “How do you do? I am very glad 
to see you,” and other set phrases. All the children 
gathered about the wonderful toy. 

“Wind another key, Mary, and see what she will do 
next,” they demanded, and soon Miss Dolly began to 
sing a French song. 

“There must be a graphophone inside her,” cried 
Mary, while Berta’s dark eyes grew wide with amaze- 
ment. 

“Now for the third key,” and to the astonishment of 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


251 


all, the doll walked across the room. Mary seized the 
lamb, and, hastily winding it, sent it off after the doll. 
Oh! what an uproar. 

“Maywy had a yitty yamb, yitty yamb, yitty yamb, ,, 
screamed Berta, and with great spirit the girls finished 
the song. 

When the excitement had subsided, Mary turned to 
the trunk. 

1 1 Girls ! did you ever see anything so cute ? Here are 
a summer hat, a fan, a parasol, and white gloves and 
shoes; and in the other side of the tray are all winter 
things, even a fur collar and muff. Do look at the 
rain-coat and umbrella , — and rubbers. Here’s a whole 
knitted suit — cap, jacket, leggings, and mittens. Oh! 
see this dear little velvet coat. The bottom of the trunk 
is full of dresses. 0 Berta, I’m afraid I’ll have to 
borrow your beautiful doll sometimes.” 

“Of tourse ’oo tan play wif her all ’oo want to,” said 
big-hearted little Berta. 

“Look at the building-blocks and the dishes and the 
furniture,” cried the girls. “Sister will have to give 
you a separate room for all these things.” 

“Oo tan all have some,” sighed the child, quite be- 
wildered at the sight of so many treasures. “ I is going 
to sit by side Uncle for a yitty while,” picking up her 
chair and placing it close to the Doctor, who sat before 
the fire conversing with his sister. 

Mary, after putting things in some kind of order, also 
joined the little group. 

“Are we going home with you this evening, Uncle?” 

“I shall stay with the Chaplain again tonight, Mary. 
Tomorrow I must return to, Albany, but I shall come 
back here for you in the afternoon and take you home 
with me for a few days. 

“By the way, when do you intend to entertain your 
little friends? I think,” turning to Mother Madeline, 
“that the finding of our little pet' here, warrants a 
celebration somewhat out of the ordinary. So you must 


252 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


let me have my way for this once, and allow all these 
children to spend a day with us in town.” 

“But Frank,” remonstrated the religious, “think of 
Aunt Mandy. The poor old soul would be distracted 
with this noisy crowd about her all day.” 

“We shall attend to that. She can sit in the corner 
and oversee the work in the kitchen, and Liza will get 
some strong young woman to assist her. Mary, will 
you have time in the morning to write invitations to 
your little friends in the city? I shall see that they 
are delivered before night. Saturday will probably be 
the best day. I shall arrange for someone to bring 
these children in early in the morning, and you can 
have your party in the afternoon. Go now and invite 
them all.” 

Mary danced away to the other end of the room. 

“Girls, you are all invited to spend Saturday at 
Uncle’s,” she announced, and proceeded to unfold the 
plans for the day. 

“A party in the afternoon! But Mary, we haven’t 
any party dresses here.” 

“Wear what you have on. The mothers of those girls 
I know in the city are sensible people, and they don’t 
dress their children in silks and satins. Nobody will 
look one bit better than we do, today.” 

“Well, I guess I’m out of it,” sighed Florence. 
“Look at me now, and by night this dress won’t be fit 
to be seen.” 

“No indeed! nobody’s out of it. You all must come 
to my function. Josephine, please behave yourself for 
the next two days so Sister won’t have to keep you 
home. If the dresses need to be done up, Mrs. Rooney 
will have them ready Friday evening. Wear your uni- 
forms on the train and put on the white ones when you 
get there.” 

These important points being settled, Mary returned 
to the fireside. 


253 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 

It is nearly time for noon prayers, but I shall see you 
again/’ said Mother Madeline. 

‘ ‘ That bell means five minutes to twelve, Uncle. ’ 9 

“Very well. We shall go up now to telephone.” 

“Will you call first and get them, Uncle? I’m al- 
ways kind of shaky about that part of it.” 

The Doctor gave the number, and, after some min- 
utes, Mr. Marvin answered. 

“A happy Christmas, Phil. Are you all at home?” 

“Why, Frank, this is an unexpected pleasure. Yes, 
we are all here together.” 

“Mary has a great piece of news which a letter would 
not carry to you fast enough. I think she wishes to 
tell Aunt Etta first.” 

He handed the receiver to the little girl, while Mr. 
Marvin called his wife to the phone. 

“Please have the whole family around you, Aunt 
Etta, so you can tell them as soon as I tell you. Now, 
are you all ready ? Well, the little girl I told you about 
isn’t Bertha Ashmere at all — she’s Berta, our own 
darling Berta!” 

“My dear, dear child, how glad — ” but her speech 
was interrupted by “What is it, mother? What is it? 
I heard Bertha’s name,” and the shout with which 
her message was received convinced Mary that her 
Georgia friends were of those who “rejoice with them 
that rejoice.” 

“Yes, Aunt Etta,” she continued, “Aunt Bertha had 
her, but she was sorry, and now she’s dead; but I’m 
going to write you a long letter tomorrow.” 

“Just a moment, Mary. Wilhelmina wishes to speak 
to you.” 

“0 Mary, I’m just tickled to death! We all are. 
Put her up on a chair. I must talk to her.” 

“It’s my Willy-mean,” cried Berta excitedly, when 
she heard the familiar voice. “Where ’oo is, Willy- 
mean?” 


254 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Talk louder, Berta. Talk as loud as you can,” in- 
sisted Wilhelmina ; and aside to the eager group around 
her, “I want you all to hear her.” 

“Am ’oo in zat yitty bwown botz, Willy mean? 0 
Uncle, p’ease open zat botz. I want to see my Willy- 
mean. ’ ’ 

The hearty laugh which greeted these remarks was 
distinctly heard by Mary and her uncle. 

“Who zat laughing, Willy-mean? Uncle tan’t open 
ze botz. ’ 9 

“Wait a minute, Berta. I want mother to speak to 
you. But you must talk louder. ” 

“How do you do, Berta? I wish I could see you as 
well as talk to you. ’ ’ 

“I is bery happy to make ’oor ’twain tance, ” screamed 
Berta, in strict accordance with Wilhelmina ’s direc- 
tions. “Who am zat laughing, anyway?” 

“Those are my little boys, who can hardly wait until 
summer time to see you. You are coming down to 
Georgia with Mary, you know.” 

“No ma’am, I don’t know nennybody named Georgie. 
Jes’ Willy-mean.” 

Then Uncle took the receiver and after a few words 
with Mr. Marvin returned it to its hook. 

“May we go with you to Mrs. Rooney’s, Uncle?” 
asked Mary at the dinner table. 

“I am afraid Berta will find it too long a walk. ’ ’ 

“We can ride her on my sled if you don’t think it’s 
too cold for her.” 

“Not a bit, and I shall be very glad to have com- 
pany.” 

It was nearly half-past two when the three set out 
on their errand of mercy. 

“Isn’t there room for you, too, on the sled, Mary?” 

“Plenty, Uncle, but I’d rather walk with you. We 
can talk better this way.” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


255 


Mrs. Rooney and Tommie were expecting them, and 
great was the joy of both when the Doctor declared 
that two months in the hospital would make the boy as 
well as anybody. 

“I have a room of my own there, Mrs. Rooney,” he 
said, 4 ‘ and it will make me very happy if your boy will 
occupy it.” 

“What funny peoples,” soliloquized Berta, as they 
started down the road. ‘ ‘ Zey is cwying when zey ought 
to be laughing. Mrs. Wooney she say, 4 1 is so happy 
as nennyfing.’ An zis morning, Maywy did say, ‘I is 
so happy,’ too, and zen zey bofe cwy. Bery funny 
peoples, I finks.” 

On the way up the drive, Mary suggested that they 
call on Daniel and Patrick. They found the two men 
in a cozy little sitting-room which they had fixed up in 
the barn. 

“Yes, Miss Mary,” said Dan, “we heard the good 
news, but we didn’t expect to see you today. We might 
ha’ known Miss Berta belonged to you. Not that you 
favor each other, but she has your ways, Miss Mary, 
she has, indeed. We were just considerin’, Patrick and 
I, as to whether we’d be intrudin’ if we went up yonder 
to thank you for your gifts. I’ve spent most of the day 
areadin’ that er magazine, and I’ve larned a heap. I 
thought I knowed most all there was to know about 
growin’ things, but I find I don’t.” 

“One of those books will be sent you every month, 
Dan,” explained the Doctor. “You can let Mary know 
at the end of the year whether they are worth anything 
to you. If so, we shall renew the subscription.” 

“ Thank ’ee, sir, thank ’ee.” 

“I have some tickets here,” continued the Doctor, 
“which you and Patrick may care to make use of. There 
is a very fine Horticultural Show going on this week, 
and, if you can spare a day, it will be worth your while 
to see it” 

“This is our dull season, Doctor, and we have time 


256 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


on our hands. It’s nigh on to twenty years since I’ve 
been to New York, but Patrick will keep me from los- 
ing myself.” 

“A thought just occurred to me. If the day makes 
no difference to you, would you have any objection to 
bringing the little girls who are spending the holidays 
here, in to my place early Saturday morning, and call- 
ing for them again in the evening? I shall take Mary 
and Berta with me tomorrow, and that will leave eight 
for you to look after.” 

“Four ladies apiece, Doctor, is a big handful for a 
lone man,” said the old gardener, dubiously, “but I 
guess we’re equal to it, Patrick and I — I guess we’re 
equal to it.” 

“Thank you, Dan. That relieves me of all anxiety 
on that point. Children, Aunt Mary will think we are 
lost.” 

After supper, the little girls gathered about the tree 
to receive from the Doctor the mysterious packages 
which had all day excited their curiosity. He also dis- 
tributed the goodies with which its branches were laden, 
but none of the ornaments were removed, for the tree 
was to be left in its place until the holidays were over. 

“I was afraid it would look so bare after being 
stripped of all these things,” said Mary, “but no one 
would know that anything had been taken off it.” 

“Except those who got the presents,” laughed Isabel. 

“There is the Benediction bell, children,” announced 
Mother Madeline. 

A half-hour later, having closed the front door after 
her brother and the Chaplain, she turned to accompany 
her little nieces down the hall. 

“Isn’t it a pity, Aunt Mary, that such a happy, 
happy day has to come to an end?” sighed Mary, as 
they neared her bed-room. 

“But there will be many happy days in the future, 
Mary, please God. And now isn’t it bedtime for little 
folks?” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 257 

“I s’pose it is, but I just hate to be separated from 
Berta, even during the night.” 

“Why need you be?” asked her aunt, turning on the 
light in the room. 

“Why, we’re in the wrong place. No, we’re not! 
Berta, Berta, look! There’s your crib, and this is your 
room just as well as mine. Oh, you dear, dear Auntie ! ” 

Mother Madeline’s guimpe was somewhat the worse 
for the demonstrations of gratitude which ensued. 

“After your return from your visit to Uncle’s, we 
shall move you into the room below Wilhelmina’s. It 
is larger and better suited for two beds.” 

“I’ll ask Uncle to send out Berta’s brass crib from 
home. It will match my bed and look better than the 
white one. You know,” she added sadly, “he had the 
dearest room fixed up for the twins, right next to 
mother’s.” 

“But where we are to put all Berta’s new toys, re- 
mains to be seen,” continued Mother, anxious to divert 
Mary’s mind to more joyous subjects. 

“We’ll find room for them, Aunt Mary. Even in 
here, the closet is large, and on account of our clothes 
being in the wardrobe room upstairs, we haven’t much 
to hang up.” 

“Can I help you get ready for bed, Berta?” 

“I’ll help her, Aunt Mary. She’s a pretty good girl 
about doing things for herself, though.” 

“Very well. I shall say good-night and go to recrea- 
tion with the Sisters,” and with a fervent “God bless 
you,” she left them. 

****** 

It was growing late, Sunday afternoon. The Doctor’s 
cozy library was in darkness save for the glow of the 
grate fire, which lighted up the faces of the two little 
girls seated before it in a big leather chair. For some 
moments their conversation had been on the events of 
the previous afternoon. 


258 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“Josy-feem am a bery nice yitty dirl, ven she am 
dood.” 

“I guess we all are,” responded Mary. 

‘ 4 Didn’t Uncle look funny dancing wif her and 
Helen?” 

“Not half as funny as when he took you for a partner 
in the Virginia Reel,” declared the elder child, laugh- 
ing gaily at the remembrance. “Uncle is so good. He 
makes everyone fell right at home. I know the girls 
had the best time.” 

A long pause ensued. Then Berta, with her gaze fixed 
on the fire, began, “Am all zose dirls’ muzzers in Heb- 
ben?” 

“Oh no, Berta, only a few of their mothers are dead.” 

“Did Aunt Berfa hold zem tight so zey touldn’t go 
wif zere muzzers to Hebben?” 

“No, no, Berta, those girls didn’t know our Aunt 
Bertha at all.” 

“Zen why for zey didn’t go to Hebben wif zere muz- 
zers? 0 Maywy, I fordot aden,” whispered the child, 
clinging to her sister and peering about her into the 
darkness. 

“Berta, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” insisted 
Mary, putting her arm about the child. “You can talk 
about mother and Beth all you want to; Aunt Bertha 
wouldn’t mind, now. Besides, she has gone to Heaven.” 

“No, no, only dood peoples tan go to Hebben, and she 
was bad.” 

“But she got good before she died. If she hadn’t 
written that letter, we wouldn’t know that you are 
our Berta at all. So you see she was sorry, and God 
forgave her and took her to Heaven.” 

“But she made muzzer cwy,” protested Berta, her 
little lips quivering at the memory. 

‘ ‘ Tell me about mother, darling, — everything you can 
remember,” pleaded Mary, yearning for the smallest 
detail of those three long years. “How did Aunt 
Bertha ever get you away from mother?” 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


259 


“Why, don’t ’oo know? We was hurrying up jes’ as 
fast as nennyfing. Muzzer was tarrying Bef ’tause she 
was afleep, and I was holding muzzer ’s hand and wun- 
ning along by side her, and pitty soon Aunt Berfa tame, 
hut muzzer neber did say she was Aunt Berfa, neber, 
neber at all. Zen she tarried me, and I was af’aid of 
her eyes, Maywy. We went up’tairs and out ze door, 
and it was dark night, and a big man wif shiny buttons 
helped muzzer and Bef into a yitty wite boat, and 
Auntie wouldn’t let me go, and she did say to muzzer, 

4 1 will teep ’oor child,’ and poor muzzer cwied, so she 
did.” A violent fit of sobbing put an end to Berta’s 
story. 

“There, there, darling, don’t cry like that. Mother 
and Beth are happy now in Heaven, and some day you 
and I will go there, too.” 

“T’mornin’?” questioned Berta eagerly, while Mary 
dried the tears from the flushed little face. 

“Not tomorrow, I guess, but some day, perhaps not 
very far away. Why ! I do believe I forgot to tell you 
about the party Patrick is going to have. He told me 
yesterday. Instead of one like ours, he’s going to take 
all us girls for a long sleigh-ride out into the country 
to his sister’s home. We’ll stay there for dinner and 
come back to the Convent late in the afternoon. Pat- 
rick’s sister has the dearest, sweetest little baby. You 
will like to see it, won’t you?” 

“How bid is it? As bid as me?” 

“Oh no, it’s a teeny, weeny baby in long clothes; not 
much bigger than your new dolly.” 

“And tan it walk and talk and sing a Fwench song?” 

“Why Berta, of course not. You can’t sing a French 
song yourself. But,” she hastened to add as she saw 
the little one’s interest beginning to flag, “it can cry — 
oh ! it can cry as loud as anything, and,” triumphantly, 
“you don’t have to wind it up, either.” 

“I don’t like cwy-babies,” was the disgusted answer. 

“But maybe its mother will show you its little pink 
toes. I’ll ask her.” 


260 


Uncle Frank’s Mary 


“How many has it dot?” demanded Berta, once more 
becoming interested. 

“Why, ten, of course. Everybody has ten toes.” 

1 1 Oh, ’ ’ said Berta, lapsing into silence and gazing into 
the fire. Mary, too, fixed her eyes on the glowing coals, 
while she swiftly recalled the incidents related by 
Berta. Could her little sister remember so accurately 
a scene of which she had merely dreamed? Or was it 
possible for a child of her age to imagine such a thing? 
Mary seriously doubted the little one’s capability of 
doing either; but since her uncle would not consider 
her views on the matter, she resolved to wait and talk 
them over with Aunt Mary. 

“Maywy, I was talking to ’oo free, seben, ten times, 
and ’oo neber did say nennyfing to me.” 

“Were you, pet? I never heard you. Oh, see the 
pretty picture in the fire,” and reaching for the poker, 
Mary proceeded to point out the various details of the 
scene which her fancy painted there. “See, here’s a 
hill with Christmas trees growing on it, and here’s 
Santa Claus coming up to chop some down. There are 
his sleigh and reindeer on the road at the foot of the 
hill, and here ’s a little house with a light in the window 
and smoke coming out of the chimney. There’s another 
house across the road, but it’s all dark, so I s’pose the 
people have gone to bed. Now, it’s your turn to show 
me a picture,” giving the coals a vigorous poke which 
sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. 

“Stars! stars!” cried Berta, clapping her hands, 
“and zat dreat bid one am ze Star of Befalum.” 

So intent did they become that they did not hear 
Uncle’s latchkey in the door; and he, concluding from 
the darkness and silence which reigned in the front part 
of the house, that the children were with Liza in the 
kitchen, was about to turn on the lights, when a murmur 
of voices attracted his attention and caused him to tip- 
toe to the library door. A long while he stood admiring 
the pretty picture before him. The great leather chair 
served as a splendid back-ground for the two little 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


261 


figures, which leaned far forward from its depths, their 
eager faces flushed with the glow of the fire. Its light 
glinted from Mary’s golden head, which rested lovingly 
on the soft dark curls of the younger child about whom 
her protecting arm was thrown, while with the poker 
she indicated the objects so interesting to both. 

Overcome by his longing to join them, the Doctor at 
last made his presence known. 

“Well, well, well! This is pleasant,” he exclaimed, 
advancing towards the fire. 

With a cry, the little girls sprang from the chair, the 
poker falling on the fender with a clatter that brought 
Liza from the kitchen. 

“I dot him first, I dot him first,” cried Berta, seizing 
his hand and holding it to her burning cheek. “Oo is 
nice and tool.” 

“And you are nice and warm. We are going to have 
a cold night.” 

“How did you ever get in without our hearing you, 
Uncle? We watched at the window until dark ” 

“Ess, until all ze yitty suns began to turn out.” 

“ There ’s imagination for you! The sun has not 
shown his face for two days and there has been no 
moon for a week.” 

“Oh, not zat bid sun, Uncle, but all ze yitty suns,” 
protested Berta. “Turn, I’ll show ’oo,” leading him to 
the window. “See, all ze yitty suns am out,” indicat- 
ing, with a graceful wave of her chubby hand, the lamps 
in the street below. The Doctor laughed heartily, and 
throwing himself in the big chair before the fire, took 
her on his knee, while Mary sat on a low stool at his 
feet. 

“The mercury is falling rapidly. I fear we are in 
for a very cold spell.” 

“What’s zat — murklee?” 

“Mercury is quicksilver, a substance with a disposi- 
tion very like yours — never still a minute.” 


262 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


“Poor Murklee!" murmured the child, gazing into 
the fire, “I hope he won't hurt hisself. It always hurts 
me drefful bad ven nennybody falls me down." 

“You said the mercury is falling, Uncle," laughed 
Mary. 

“So I did. I must remember that I have a very small 
niece as well as a larger one." 

“But I isn’t as yitty as ze baby." 

Then Mary told Uncle of the treat Patrick had in 
store for them. 

“Indeed, if it were not for the fact that I must leave 
town for a few days, I should insist on keeping you here 
until the vacation is over. You cannot imagine how 
pleasant it is to come home and find two dear little 
folks waiting for me. Aunt Mary must really take pity 
on my declining years and allow you to come in here 
oftener." 

“What's zat?" 

“What is what f” 

“Tlimbing ears?" 

“Oh, I should have said ‘on my old age.' " 

“But 'oo isn’t so bery old — not as old as Sandy 
Tlaus," declared Berta, triumphantly. 

“Well, hardly," laughed the Doctor, “but one might 
live a very long time indeed, and not be as old as your 
friend. Why do you think I am not as old as Santa 
Claus ? ' ' 

“Betause 'oor hair isn't wite like his, and 'oo hasn't 
wite wiksers. Oh, I wish 'oo had wiksers," she added, 
her eyes dancing with mischief. 

“Why, pray?" 

“So I tould pull em a yitty bit ven 'oo pulls my 
turls." 

“Oho! Tit for tat, eh? But I must stop plaguing 
you. It isn’t fair, is it? Mary, what is the matter with 
the piano, this evening?" 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


263 


“Nothing at all, Uncle,” said the little girl, rising 
and taking her place at the instrument. 

“Shall I turn on the light ?” 

“I don’t need it, Uncle, for the things you like. 1 
can play them with my eyes shut, because I practice 
them more than anything else.” 

After playing several of his favorites, she struck the 
opening chords of a kindergarten song. 

* ‘ Sing about the snow-birds for Uncle, Berta. He has 
never heard you. ’ 9 

“Not zat song, Maywy,” protested the little lady, dis- 
dainfully. “Let’s sing ‘Smarty, smarty had a party, 
and nennybody wouldn’t turn.’ 99 

“Such a song!” exclaimed Mary, wheeling about on 
the stool. “Where did you ever hear that?” 

“Josy-feem sings it lots of times,” declared Berta, 
somewhat abashed. 

“Well, it’s not a pretty song at all; how do you 
s ’pose we would have felt if nobody came to our party ? ’ ’ 

“Let sing about ze yitty birdies,” interrupted Berta, 
hastily, and when the performance had been duly praised 
by Uncle, she said, “Now, Maywy, play Desty Fiddlzez.” 

“Play what?” asked the Doctor in a puzzled tone. 

“ Desty Fiddlzez . Why ev 9 ybody knows zat ” 

“I think you had better stick to plain English, my 
dear, for some years to come,” laughed her uncle, as 
Mary obediently began the “Adeste.” 

The remainder of the holidays passed quickly. Mary 
and Berta spent the last four days at Uncle Prank’s, 
returning to the Convent late Wednesday afternoon. 
There they were the center of attraction, for though 
each pupil on her arrival at Maryvale heard of the great 
event before she had time to divest herself of her wraps, 
there were numberless questions concerning minor de- 
tails, which no one but the principal actors could satis- 
factorily answer. Mary had thought that she would 
never tire of telling how her wonderful happiness had 


264 


Uncle Frank's Mary 


come to her, but when an hour had elapsed and she saw 
several groups of late arrivals eagerly approaching to 
hear the story, she was not at all sorry to receive the 
message, “You and Berta are wanted in the parlor." 

“Whoever can it be! Uncle brought us out here and 
then went straight back to the city," she exclaimed, ex- 
amining Berta's hands with motherly solicitude. 
“They're nothing extra, but they might be worse. We 
can’t stop to wash them again, because it isn't p'lite to 
keep people waiting in the parlor. Your dress is nice 
and clean, anyway," and taking her little sister by the 
hand, she hurried away. 

“WTio does 'oo fink it am, Maywy?" 

“I haven't the least idea, Berta," then, as a merry 
peal of laughter issued from the parlor, she stopped 
abruptly, saying, “That's Wilhelmina, and she's play- 
ing a joke on us. But we'll play one on her, too. When 
we go in, we won't kiss her, but we'll hold our hands 
so, and walk this way and say, ‘Why, how do you do, 
Miss Marvin?’ " 

“An’ tan I say, ‘Bery happy to make ’oor twaint- 
ance?’ ’’ 

“Yes, yes, do! That will be fine. Now, I’ll sit here 
and pretend I’m Wilhelmina, and you show me how you 
are going to act." 

Berta withdrew a few paces, and pursing up her rosy 
lips, clasped her hands primly before her and took little 
mincing steps towards Mary, who had all she could do 
to smother her glee. 

“Now, we'll go in. No, we won’t take hands, be- 
cause we are going to hold them this way, you know." 

However, as they entered the parlor, Mary’s dignity 
suddenly evaporated, and with a joyous little scream, 
she sped to Aunt Etta’s outstretched arms. 

“Why! why! ’oo said " but Berta’s indignant 

protest was cut short by Wilhelmina 's none too gentle 
embrace. 


A Wonderful Christmas Gift 


265 


“Mother, mother, have yon eyes for no one but Mary? 
After coming a thousand miles to see Berta, you haven ’t 
even looked at her!” 

“I shall do more than look at her, I assure you,” 
declared the good lady, taking the child in her arms 
and seating herself in the nearest chair. “So this is 
the little girl who has brought so much happiness to 
us all. I just couldn’t wait until summer time to see 
my new niece, but stole away with Wilhelmina.” 

Then Mother Madeline came in and insisted that Mrs. 
Marvin should remain over night. After her departure 
the following day, Wilhelmina and Mary settled down 
quite naturally to the routine of school life; and the 
next Sunday the latter declared to her uncle, “To look 
at the girls, no one would ever think there had been a 
Christmas vacation at all.” 


PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK 


“A new and glorious star in the firmament of child’s litera- 
ture.” — Father Finn. 

SISTER CLEMENTIA’S STORIES 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY 

With a beautiful half-tone frontispiece and original 
cover and jacket design. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

‘‘Once in a while — a long while, more often than not — a 
reviewer discovers among the books piled on his desk a vol- 
ume which proves on perusal to be a find, a work exception- 
ally good in a class to which it belongs, and just such a find 
is ‘Uncle Frank’s Mary.’ It is full of thoughtful interest; 
there is abundance of action, excellent character drawing, 
charming dialogue, wonderful plot developments, and a host 
of delightful personages, besides the lovable little heroine.” 
— Ave Maria. 

THE QUEST OF MARY SELWYN 

With a beautiful half-tone frontispiece and original 
cover and jacket design. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

“Her first book promises to give her in the rank of story- 
writers for girls a place parallel with that occupied by Father 
Finn amongst those who tell stories for boys.” — Ecclesiastical 
Review. 

“A book, the charm of which is not surpassed by anything 
put out in recent years. It has pathos, purity, real heart 
thrills, for it speaks in their own language of nature’s and 
God’s sweetest gifts, children — little girls.” — Catholic Union 
and Times. 


PLAYS BY THE SAME AUTHOR, SUITABLE FOR 
SCHOOLS AND SUNDAY SCHOOLS 


Title 

Time 

Price 

A Wonderful Christmas Gift. 

“Thy Kingdom Come” or “The Ninth 
Promise” Fulfilled. 

i l A 

hrs. 

$0.50 

l H 

hrs. 

0.50 

There was No Room in the Inn. 

45 

min. 

0.30 

Nancy 

45 

min. 

0.30 

Young King Cole 

45 

min. 

0.30 

One of His Little Ones. 

30 

min. 

0.30 

The Frolic of the Bees and Butterflies 

30 

min. 

0.30 

Happy Days. 

1 

hr. 

0.30 

“Sie Itur Ad Astra.” 

30 

min. 

0.75 













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